Chapter 3: The Siege of the Reception
The doors to the Waldorf Terrace burst open. It wasn't the caterers arriving with the wedding cake.
It was the FBI.
Six agents in windbreakers, badges displayed clearly on their chests, stormed into the ballroom. They didn't look like guests; they looked like the end of a career. The lead agent, a woman with iron-gray hair and an expression of utter boredom, scanned the room.
"Julian Thorne?" she called out. The name didn't sound like an invitation; it sounded like a sentence.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea. Julian stood near the fountain, his suit ruined, his confidence utterly evaporated. He looked at the agents, then back at Elena, who was still standing in the water, shivering, her hand clutching the drive.
"You’re too late," Julian laughed, a desperate, hysterical sound. "That drive is useless! Without the physical ledgers, you have nothing!"
The lead agent walked up to the edge of the fountain. She didn't even look at Julian. She looked at Elena. "Ms. Elena, we received the package. And the backup servers. Thank you for your cooperation."
May you like
She turned to her team. "Secure the perimeter. No one leaves. Seize all mobile devices. We have a warrant for everything."
The terrace, once the height of elite social status, was now a crime scene. Guests who had spent thousands on their gowns and tuxedos were now being treated as potential witnesses. The "wedding of the year" was officially the biggest federal bust of the decade.
