Chapter 6 - Federal Shadows
Within four hours, the case leaped out of municipal jurisdiction.
Special Agent Miller led me down into the secured basement of the Federal Building on 7th Street. The walls were lined with sound-dampening acoustic tiles, and the air had the dry, chilled smell of server racks operating under maximum load.
“The lab finished the chemical analysis on the spike Dr. Aerys extracted from your zygomatic tissue,” Miller said, placing a manila folder with a bold red *BIO-HAZARD* stamp onto the center table.
She opened it. Inside were high-resolution microscopic photographs of the rusted metal surface.
“It wasn't just rust, Maeve,” Miller said, her expression grim. “The tip of the spike had been dipped in a concentrated culture of *Clostridium tetani* and an industrial anticoagulant commonly found in rodenticides. If that spike had penetrated a major facial vessel, you wouldn’t have just bled profusely; your blood wouldn’t have clotted, and the neurotoxin would have paralyzed your central nervous system within forty-eight hours.”
A wave of nausea hit me so hard my vision doubled. “They didn't just want a laceration for their live-streamed bet. They were trying to kill me.”
“Or put you into an irreversible coma,” Miller corrected. “Under state probate law, if you become medically incapacitated without a designated medical power of attorney, your legal guardianship automatically reverts to your surviving next-of-kin: your mother, Rowena. And as your guardian, she would have full legal authority to liquidate the downtown commercial parcel to ‘pay for your ongoing long-term care.’”
The sheer, diabolical architecture of the plan took my breath away. It was a three-tiered trap:
1. Orchestrate an ‘accidental’ fall on a viral stream to collect millions from dark-web betting syndicates.
2. Exploit the footage on public social media for monetization, sympathy branding, and ad revenue.
3. Incapacitate or murder me via secondary infection, instantly clearing the legal path to steal the multi-million-dollar downtown real estate my father had left me.
“What’s our next move?” I asked, my voice dropping an octave, cold and resonant.
Miller tapped a key on her laptop. An aerial surveillance photograph appeared on the display. It showed a sprawling, ultra-modern glass villa perched on the cliffs overlooking the Hudson River—Declan Cross’s primary production compound.
“Tonight is the annual *Apex Digital Creator Gala* at the Grand Marquis Ballroom downtown,” Miller said, leaning forward. “Cresa and Declan are scheduled to appear as the keynote speakers. Declan is using the gala to announce an eight-figure venture capital round for his new media conglomerate, backed by the very shell companies that funded the live-streamed betting pool.”
“They’re going to take the stage as internet royalty,” I said.
“They think they are,” Miller countered, a predatory smile touching the corner of her lips. “The United States Attorney for the Southern District has just unsealed a twelve-count federal indictment charging Declan Cross, Cresa Lindell, and Rowena Lindell with conspiracy to commit wire fraud, aggravated identity theft, production of illicit violent broadcasts, and attempted murder with a biological toxin.”
She slid a sleek, wireless lapel microphone and a micro-earpiece across the table toward me.
“We can kick in the doors of Declan’s villa right now and take them in their sleep,” Miller said. “Or, you can walk into that gala tonight, look your sister in the eye, and let us take them down on their own live broadcast in front of eight million viewers.”
I picked up the tiny microphone. The cool metal felt heavy in my palm.
May you like
“Get me a dress that covers the back of my neck,” I said, looking straight into the federal agent’s eyes. “And make sure the camera feeds are pointed right at my face.”
***
