Chapter 5
Three police cruisers surrounded the small rental car,
their spotlights cutting through the heavy rain,
blinding Preston as he sat shivering in the driver's seat.
Doors slammed,
heavy boots crunched against the wet gravel,
and the crackle of police radios filled the freezing air.
Step out of the vehicle,
a voice commanded through a bullhorn,
harsh,
authoritative,
leaving no room for hesitation.
Preston fumbled with the door handle,
his frozen fingers barely able to grip the plastic,
pushing the door open against the howling wind.
He stepped out,
raising his trembling hands in the air,
the rain instantly plastering his ruined tuxedo shirt to his chest.
Turn around and place your hands on the roof of the car,
the officer shouted,
moving in quickly,
flanked by two heavily armed state troopers.
Preston obeyed,
his movements slow,
sluggish,
his pride completely stripped away,
leaving only a hollow,
terrified shell of a man.
He felt the rough,
calloused hands grab his wrists,
pulling them behind his back with sharp,
unforgiving force.
The cold metal of the handcuffs bit into his skin,
clicking tightly into place,
a sound that sealed his fate,
a sound that meant the game was officially over.
Preston Caldwell,
the lead detective said,
stepping into the beam of the spotlight,
reading from a laminated card.
You are under arrest for grand larceny,
wire fraud,
and corporate embezzlement.
Preston closed his eyes,
the rain washing the tears down his face,
too weak to speak,
too broken to deny it.
You have the right to remain silent,
the detective continued,
reciting the Miranda rights,
words Preston had only ever heard on television,
never believing they would apply to him,
the untouchable managing director of Whitmore Holdings.
Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law,
the detective finished,
grabbing Preston by the elbow,
steering him toward the back of the waiting cruiser.
Watch your head,
the officer muttered,
pushing Preston down into the hard,
plastic backseat,
slamming the heavy door shut.
Preston sat in the dark,
smelling the stale sweat and disinfectant of the police car,
the cage locking around him.
He looked out the window,
seeing the iron gates of Breakwater one last time,
the gates he had begged to open,
the gates that stood silent,
indifferent to his suffering.
The cruiser pulled away,
the tires spinning in the mud,
leaving the estate behind,
leaving the scene of his final,
pathetic defeat.
He was heading to a holding cell,
a concrete box,
a place where his tailored suits and expensive haircuts meant absolutely nothing.
He thought of me,
sitting in a warm,
leather-scented office in Manhattan,
untouchable,
supreme,
and he finally understood the true depth of his mistake.
He hadn't just cheated on his wife,
he had declared war on a god,
May you like
and the god had responded with absolute,
biblical destruction.
