Chapter 8 - The Clean-Up
Forty-eight hours later, the storm had finally cleared over the city, leaving behind a crisp, biting autumn chill and a sky the color of polished steel.
Saint Matthew’s Hospital was crawling with federal agents. Black Suburbans with tinted windows occupied the entire VIP parking deck. Uniformed State Police stood guard at every elevator entrance, every stairwell, and every corner of the fourth floor.
The media was having a field day.
Every television in the waiting lounge was broadcasting the same headline scrolling across the bottom of the screen:
**BILLIONAIRE DEVELOPER RICHARD CARTER FOUND DEAD IN HOSPITAL SHOOTING; MULTI-MILLION DOLLAR INTERNATIONAL MONEY LAUNDERING RING EXPOSED BY FEDERAL AUDITORS.**
Julian Vance had died on the floor of my bedroom before the tactical response team could secure him, bleeding out from the severed brachial artery. His operations network was currently being dismantled across three continents.
I sat on the hard plastic chair outside Room 412. I had showered, changed into clean civilian clothes, and had my broken knuckles wrapped by a nurse downstairs. But my boots were still stained with the mud from my backyard.
Marcus Miller walked down the corridor, his left arm immobilized in an orthopedic sling, holding two cardboard cups of black coffee. He sat down beside me and offered one.
"Grand jury convened an hour ago in Manhattan," Miller said quietly, staring straight ahead. "The data on that micro-SD card contained forty thousand pages of transactions. Carter’s offshore accounts. The Syndicate’s logistics manifests. The names of twelve port officials, three state senators, and two federal judges who were on Carter’s payroll."
I took a sip of the coffee. It was bitter, scalding hot, and tasted like heaven. "And the leak in your department?"
"Arrested at JFK three hours ago trying to board a private flight to Zurich," Miller said with a grim smile. "He’ll spend the next thirty years in ADX Florence."
"Good."
Miller turned his head to look at me. "The state attorney asked me what happened at your house on Elm Street."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him Julian Vance broke in, tripped over some construction debris, and sustained fatal lacerations while attempting to resist a homeowner who acted in justifiable self-defense," Miller said smoothly. "The weapon was registered to you. Case closed."
I nodded slowly. "Thank you, Marcus."
"Don't thank me, Walker. If Sophia hadn't kept her mouth shut while Vance broke her bones, half the Eastern Seaboard would still be owned by those monsters. Your wife has more grit than my entire field office combined."
The door to Room 412 opened.
Dr. Bennett stepped out. He looked exhausted, bags hanging beneath his eyes like dark bruises, but for the first time in three days, the tension had drained from his shoulders.
"Ethan," he said, offering a faint, tired smile.
I stood up immediately, the coffee cup crushing slightly in my grip. "How is she?"
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"The craniectomy was successful," Bennett said. "The swelling has completely stabilized. We removed the ventilator two hours ago. She’s breathing on her own, her neurological reflexes are intact, and... she’s asking for you."
***
