Chapter 2 - Jurisdiction

Eleanor Sterling was a woman who believed that if the stage was grand enough, the audience would ignore the blood on the floor.

Despite the federal investigation looming over them, she refused to cancel her annual "Sterling Foundation Charity Gala." Held in the grand ballroom of the city’s most exclusive hotel, it was a desperate display of power, an attempt to show the world that the Sterlings were untouchable. The mayor was there, along with socialites, judges, and business tycoons.

I walked through the front doors wearing a custom-tailored tuxedo that fit perfectly over my Kevlar vest.

Agent Harris and his team were positioned outside, waiting for my signal. This wasn't just about justice anymore; it was about total annihilation. Sarah had told me that Eleanor cared about her reputation more than her own life. So, that was what I was going to take from her.

I moved through the crowd, holding a glass of champagne, playing the part of a wealthy patron. Eleanor was on the main stage, wearing a shimmering silver gown, dripping in diamonds. She smiled brightly for the cameras, holding a microphone.

“We are gathered tonight to celebrate philanthropy, family, and the bonds that tie this beautiful community together,” Eleanor's voice echoed through the massive ballroom speakers.

I touched the earpiece hidden in my ear. “Execute,” I whispered.

Up in the AV booth, one of my former operatives tapped a key.

The massive digital screens behind Eleanor, which had been displaying the charity logo, suddenly flickered and went black.

The gentle classical music playing in the room cut out abruptly.

Then, an audio recording blasted through the state-of-the-art sound system. It was Eleanor’s voice, but not the sweet, cultured tone she was using now. It was the recording from Sarah’s hidden phone, recovered from the cloud.

"This is what disobedience costs," Eleanor’s venomous hiss echoed off the crystal chandeliers. "You’re nothing but a broke old man's daughter. You belong to us."

The crowd gasped. Murmurs rippled through the sea of tuxedos and gowns.

Eleanor froze, her face draining of color. She looked back at the screen.

The screen flashed to life. It didn't show charity work. It displayed the high-resolution photo I had taken of Sarah’s bruised shoulder. Then it flipped to a dizzying array of financial documents—the cartel ledgers, bank transfers, and embezzlement records—with Eleanor and Jason’s signatures highlighted in bright red.

"Shut it off!" Jason screamed, running out from the wings, waving his hands at the AV booth. "Security! Cut the power!"

But the doors to the ballroom were already opening.

Men and women in FBI windbreakers poured into the room, fanning out. Agent Harris walked straight down the center aisle, holding a stack of warrants.

“Eleanor and Jason Sterling,” Harris’s voice carried over the chaos without a microphone. “You are under arrest for money laundering, wire fraud, conspiracy to distribute narcotics, and the attempted murder of Sarah Vance. You have the right to remain silent.”

Eleanor dropped the microphone. It hit the stage with an ear-piercing screech. She looked out into the crowd—the friends she had bought, the politicians she had funded. They were all turning away, stepping back as if she were diseased.