Chapter 8 - The Viper’s Nest
"Get out of my way, Frank," Victor hissed, his voice dropping low so the troopers wouldn't hear. "The recording convicts the boy. It doesn't touch me. I am the Deputy Commissioner. By tomorrow noon, the Attorney General will seal the offshore files under executive privilege. You won the battle for your daughter, old man. Take your victory and go back to your farm."
Frank reached into his utility jacket. Victor’s lawyer flinched, expecting a weapon.
Instead, Frank pulled out a faded, dog-eared black notebook with a cracked leather spine. On the front, etched in gold leaf that had long since worn away, was the emblem of the United States Marine Corps 1st Reconnaissance Battalion.
Victor’s eyes widened. All the color drained from his face, leaving his skin the shade of wet parchment.
"You thought it burned in Kuwait, didn't you?" Frank murmured.
"No..." Victor whispered. "That's impossible. The fire destroyed the supply depot."
"I dragged you out of that burning depot, Victor," Frank said, his voice razor-sharp. "And before I carried your cowardly ass to the dust-off chopper, I pulled the inventory logs from your chest rig. Thirty-two years I kept this book. Every serial number. Every crate of weapons. Every vial of narcotics you sold to the insurgents that killed seven boys from our platoon."
"Frank... please," Victor begged, his voice dropping into a desperate, panicked whisper. "That was thirty years ago. The statute of limitations—"
"Treason has no statute of limitations," Frank cut him off coldly. "Neither does murder. Two of those boys were from Pennsylvania, Victor. Their families still visit their graves at Arlington every Memorial Day. You built this political dynasty on the blood of the men you betrayed in the desert."
Victor lunged forward, abandoning all decorum, his manicured hands clawing desperately to snatch the leather notebook from Frank’s grip.
It was the final mistake of Victor Vance’s life.
Frank caught Victor’s wrist in an iron vice. With a sharp, textbook joint-lock, he bent the commissioner's arm backward, forcing the powerful politician down onto his knees on the cold hospital tiles. Victor groaned in pain, his designer overcoat dragging in the rainwater Brock had tracked inside.
"Detective Jenkins," Frank called out without looking back.
Jenkins stepped forward, her handcuffs already glinting in the pale fluorescent light. "I'm right here, Frank."
"Take him into custody for federal conspiracy, treason, and obstruction of justice. The U.S. Marshals are already en route. I called them from the gym before I broke the phone."
As the iron bracelets snapped tightly around Victor Vance’s wrists, the grand entrance doors slid open once more.
A squad of eight federal marshals in tactical gear entered the lobby, led by a tall, silver-haired woman carrying a federal arrest warrant signed by the Chief Judge of the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
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"Victor Vance?" the lead Marshal announced. "You are under arrest by order of the Department of Defense and the Department of Justice."
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