Chapter 7 - The Strike
"POLICE! SDPD! DON'T MOVE! DROP THE SYRINGE! DROP IT NOW!"
The living room windows shattered inward as flashbang grenades ignited on the front lawn, filling the air with blinding white light and a concussive roar that shook the floorboards.
A dozen heavily armed SWAT officers in black tactical gear poured through the shattered front door and the rear patio glass, their assault rifles equipped with green laser sights that instantly painted Reginald’s chest and face in a web of lethal light.
"GET ON THE GROUND! BOTH OF YOU! ON THE GROUND NOW!"
Reginald panicked. The arrogant surgeon vanished, replaced by a terrified animal. He lunged forward, trying to jam the needle directly into my neck.
I didn't wait for the police to reach us.
I swung my legs off the sofa, grabbing Reginald’s wrist with a crushing, two-handed grip I had used on violent trauma patients in delirium. I twisted his arm downward, slamming his wrist against the edge of the mahogany coffee table.
The glass syringe flew from his hand, shattering against the hardwood floor, spilling ten cubic centimeters of lethal succinylcholine across the rug.
Reginald screamed as I drove my forearm into his chest, pinning him against the floor just as two SWAT officers tackled him, forcing his hands behind his back and snapping steel handcuffs over his wrists.
Across the room, Maris didn't scream. She didn't fight.
She stood frozen near the hallway door, her hands raised slightly, her face completely drained of color as Detective Marcus Vance stepped through the smoke, his service pistol pointed directly at her forehead.
"Maris Vance," Marcus said, his voice echoing through the ruined living room. "You are under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, murder in the first degree of Arthur Vance, and child endangerment. You have the right to remain silent..."
Maris’s eyes shifted away from the detective, locking onto me as I stood up from the sofa, pulling the hidden microphone from beneath my bathrobe.
"Gideon..." she whispered, her voice cracking as her perfect, carefully constructed facade shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. "You... you set me up."
"No, Maris," I said, looking at her with absolute, cold finality. "I just kept the medical records."
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As the officers dragged Reginald and Maris out into the pouring rain, their hands cuffed behind their backs, the quiet house at 412 Birch Street finally fell silent.
The storm was still raging outside, but the air inside the living room felt clean for the very first time.
