The sun was just beginning to rise over the sprawling Sterling estate. The harsh, chemical smell of gasoline had long since faded from the porch, washed completely away by two days of heavy rain, entirely unnoticed by the arrogant occupants who were far too self-absorbed to ever smell their own impending doom.
I parked my Ford truck right at the end of their long, manicured driveway. This time, I wasn’t hiding in the dark woods. I was standing dead in the center of the asphalt road, leaning against the hood of my truck, holding a large, steaming cup of black coffee.
I watched with deep, profound satisfaction as three massive, armored SWAT vehicles roared up the peaceful suburban street, turning sharply and physically smashing straight through the intricate, million-dollar wrought-iron gates.
I watched as twelve heavily armed officers in full tactical gear swarmed the grand front porch—the exact same porch I had almost ignited forty-eight hours prior.
Bam! Bam! Bam! “POLICE! SEARCH WARRANT! OPEN THE DOOR!”
There was no polite waiting. The heavy oak doors were violently battered down by a steel ram.
I took a slow sip of my coffee. It tasted incredibly sweet.
Five minutes later, Liam Sterling was forcefully dragged out the front door. He was wearing expensive silk pajamas. He was crying. Actual, pathetic tears and snot ran down his face as an officer shoved him roughly against the hood of a squad car to apply the cuffs. He looked wildly toward the street and saw me leaning against my truck.
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