Chapter 8 - The Border Arrest
Fifty miles north of Seattle, at the Peace Arch border crossing in Blaine, Washington, a silver sedan sat idling in the lane for northbound traffic bound for Canada.
Sloan Sterling sat behind the wheel, tapping her manicured nails nervously against the leather steering wheel. She glanced repeatedly in her rearview mirror, her eyes darting between the border patrol booths and the line of commercial trucks behind her.
Her passport rested on the passenger seat beside a cashier's check for six hundred thousand dollars—the remaining liquid capital she had managed to siphon from Vance & Sterling’s secondary accounts before the state froze the firm's assets.
She pulled her sunglasses down, handing her passport to the border patrol officer at the window.
"Heading to Vancouver for vacation, ma'am?" the officer asked, scanning the barcode on the identification page.
"Just a weekend shopping trip," Sloan said, offering her most practiced, charming smile. "Meeting some friends at the Harbor Hotel."
The officer looked at his computer screen. The screen flashed with a bright red system alert:
FEDERAL WARRANT: U.S. MARSHALS SERVICE / FINANCIAL CRIMES DIVISION. SUBJECT: SLOAN ELIZABETH STERLING.
The officer's demeanor shifted instantly. He didn't look back at her. He simply pressed a concealed button beneath the desk counter.
"Ma'am, please turn off your engine and step out of the vehicle," the officer said calmly.
Sloan's heart slammed against her ribs. "Excuse me? Is there a problem with my visa?"
Two armed U.S. Customs and Border Protection officers stepped out from the main building, positioning themselves on either side of her sedan.
"Turn off the ignition, Miss Sterling," the lead officer commanded, placing his hand over his sidearm holster. "You have an active federal warrant issued by the Western District of Washington for conspiracy to commit wire fraud, interstate transport of stolen property, and obstruction of justice."
Sloan's fake smile completely shattered. She grabbed the cashier's check on the seat, trying to shove it into her purse, but the door was yanked open from the outside.
"Out of the car! Now!"
Within seconds, Sloan was pulled from the vehicle, her arms twisted behind her back as cold steel handcuffs snapped around her wrists. Her designer coat dragged along the wet asphalt as she was pushed against the side of her sedan.
"You can't do this!" Sloan shrieked, her voice echoing across the quiet border lanes. "My father is Arthur Sterling! He owns Sterling Holdings!"
"Your father was interviewed by federal agents two hours ago, Miss Sterling," the arresting Marshal said, pulling the cashier's check from her purse and sealing it in an evidence bag. "He gave them the key to your safety deposit box in Victoria."
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Sloan looked up at the grey sky, tears of rage and desperation smearing her expensive eyeliner.
The web of control she and Declan had woven so carefully over eight long months—the gaslighting, the stolen funds, the cold abandonment in the dark lot—had snapped completely. She wasn't escaping to a luxury high-rise in Vancouver. She was going back to Seattle in the back of a federal transport van.
