Chapter 4 - The Golden Boy’s Banquet
Back at the Sterling estate, the atmosphere was shockingly celebratory.
The broken glass had been swept into the trash by Evelyn, and the grandfather clock in the foyer chimed ten o'clock. The scent of roasted prime rib and expensive bourbon filled the expansive, carpeted living room.
Travis sat sprawled across the plush leather sectional, a glass of twenty-year-old scotch balanced on his belly, laughing as he replayed a sports highlight on the sixty-five-inch television.
"I swear, Dad, you should have seen the look on Clara's face," Travis chuckled, taking a sip. "She thought she could waltz in here, act high and mighty just because Garrett’s overseas, and demand we treat her kid like royalty. A little discipline was long overdue."
Arthur stood by his rebuilt oak cabinet, carefully polishing the brass frame of his Legion of Merit medal with a microfiber cloth. His posture was rigid, his expression smug.
"She has forgotten her place," Arthur stated coldly, setting the medal back onto its velvet perch. "She married an active-duty grunt with no respect for tradition. A fatherless home breeds chaos. The boy had no discipline. When I spoke to Chief Higgins earlier, I made it abundantly clear: if Clara tries to make a scene, she’ll find herself facing a child-endangerment counter-suit for allowing her son to run wild near high-value antiquities."
Evelyn walked in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a linen towel, her lip curled in lingering disgust. "The nerve of that girl, tracking blood onto my Turkish rug. She didn't even apologize for interrupting dinner! I always knew she was the weak link in this family. Travis, honey, did you hurt your shoulder when you restrained him?"
"A little sore, Mom," Travis whined, feigning a grimace. "Kid was squirming like an animal. I think he tried to kick me. I might need to take a couple of days off work to recover."
"Take all the time you need, sweetheart," Evelyn cooed, pouring him another two fingers of scotch. "Your father and I will handle Clara. She has nowhere else to go. Garrett’s stuck in Eastern Europe for another eight months. By tomorrow morning, she’ll be on her knees outside that door, begging for our forgiveness and offering to pay for the cabinet."
"She better pay for it," Arthur snapped. "Custom tempered glass from Germany won't be cheap. I’ll demand five thousand dollars from her military allowance, or I’ll notify the garrison commander that she’s causing domestic distress."
Arthur felt invincible. For thirty-five years, he had been the undisputed dictator of this household and this county. He knew the mayor; he played golf with the municipal judge; the local police chief owed him his career. In Arthur’s mind, the law was not an objective shield for the weak—it was a personal weapon to punish anyone who challenged his authority.
Suddenly, Travis’s phone buzzed on the coffee table. He picked it up, glancing at the screen.
"Hey, Dad. It's Clara."
"Put it on speaker," Arthur ordered, stepping over with his arms crossed behind his back. "Let me educate her on the consequences of her insubordination."
Travis tapped the speaker icon. "Well, well. Look who decided to crawl back. Did you take the brat to get a band-aid, Clara?"
There was no answer from Clara.
Instead, a chillingly calm, unfamiliar mechanical voice came through the receiver:
*“This line is being recorded under federal statutory authorization Title 18, United States Code, Section 2511. All parties on this frequency have been logged. Stand by for inbound command delivery.”*
Travis frowned, pulling the phone away to look at the screen. "What the hell is this? Clara, stop playing games—"
A harsh, cutting click sounded, followed by the terrifying, unmistakable sound of a heavy jet engine whistling in the background. Then came Garrett’s voice.
It was low. It was quiet. It held the weight of an incoming artillery shell.
"Arthur."
Arthur stiffened instinctively at the sound of the deep, authoritative timbre, but his arrogance quickly flared back to the surface. He leaned toward the phone, barking in his best parade-ground voice: "Garrett! It’s about time you answered for your wife’s disgraceful behavior! Your undisciplined son destroyed my—"
"Arthur," Garrett interrupted, his tone freezing the room like a sudden drop in cabin pressure. "Do not speak. Listen."
"How dare you give me orders, you insolent—"
"I have the video," Garrett said, each syllable landing like an iron hammer. "I have the biometric audio. I have the medical scans of my son’s severed facial tissue. And I have the sworn statements from the emergency room staff regarding your illegal interference with local law enforcement."
Travis snorted, trying to regain his bravado. "Hey, tough guy, you're halfway across the world! What are you gonna do, cry to your sergeant? The kid fell! Ask anyone here!"
"Travis," Garrett’s voice dropped so low it sounded like it was coming from the center of the earth. "Enjoy that house while you still have keys to it. Enjoy your freedom while you can still see the sky. Because in forty-eight hours, the hammer of God is coming down on that living room."
*Click.*
The line went dead.
Travis laughed, though the sound was noticeably higher-pitched than before. "He’s bluffing! He's stuck in Poland! What's he gonna do, fly commercial?"
May you like
Arthur didn't laugh. He stared at the darkened phone screen, a strange, hollow coldness suddenly settling in the pit of his stomach. For the first time in his life, Arthur Sterling felt a shiver of pure, unadulterated dread.
***
