Chapter 9
Roderic stopped.
He looked down at the woman who had worn his family’s engagement ring for three months, the woman who had watched his three-year-old child weep for bread and filmed it for strangers.
"You wanted an audience, Delphine," Roderic said, his voice flat as a tombstone. "Now you have one."
He reached down with his free hand, seized the five-carat diamond ring on her finger, and pulled it off with a single, sharp twist that scraped skin from her knuckle. Delphine gasped in pain, but didn't dare pull away.
Roderic tossed the diamond into the bowl of gravy-soaked sponge on the table.
"Pay your brother’s debts with that," Roderic said.
He turned his back on her, walking toward the grand double doors of the ballroom.
"Silas," Roderic commanded without breaking stride. "Open the doors."
"Boss, the marshals are in the lobby," Silas warned, stepping up beside him with his hand on his concealed weapon.
"Open the doors, Silas," Roderic repeated. "They aren't here to shoot. They’re here to negotiate."
Silas threw the heavy brass deadbolts back and pulled the double oak doors wide open.
The grand marble foyer of the hotel was bathed in harsh, blinding white tactical floodlights. Two dozen federal marshals in dark body armor and ballistic helmets were arrayed in a tactical semi-circle, their assault rifles raised, their red laser sights instantly painting the entryway.
At the head of the formation stood a tall, lean man of fifty with silver-rimmed glasses, a navy windbreaker with 'US MARSHAL' emblazoned in yellow across the chest, and an unreadable, clinical expression.
Special Agent Miller.
"Roderic Haversham," Miller announced through a handheld megaphone, his voice echoing off the marble pillars. "Set the child down and place your hands on your head. You are under arrest for conspiracy, extortion, and child endangerment."
Roderic did not set Annelie down. He shifted her weight comfortably against his chest, tucking his overcoat over her small back so she was shielded from the cold lobby drafts.
Annelie peeked over his shoulder, her hazel eyes curious, looking at the dozens of red laser dots dancing across the floor.
"Daddy," she whispered into his ear. "Are those the men from the phone?"
"No, baby," Roderic murmured, his voice calm and melodic. "Those are just men who think they're important."
Roderic took three slow, measured steps forward, descending the grand marble staircase into the center of the tactical cordon. He stopped four paces from Miller’s boots.
"You're making a tactical error, Miller," Roderic said, his American accent smooth and commanding.
Miller lowered the megaphone, a tight, bureaucratic smirk touching his lips. "An error? We have your live stream on federal servers. We have Kenneth Ross’s sworn proffer. And we have thirty agents securing your port terminal as we speak."
"You had thirty agents at the terminal," Roderic corrected.
May you like
Miller’s smirk faltered slightly. "What are you talking about?"
"Check your tactical radio, Agent Miller," Roderic said, turning his wrist slightly so his Patek Philippe caught the floodlight. "It’s six-fifteen. The automated harbor valves opened three minutes ago."
