“Check your computer, Sheriff,” a deep, electronically distorted voice said through the speaker.
Vance frowned. “Who the hell is this? Do you know who you’re talking to—”
“Check the monitor, Vance.”
The line went dead.
Vance clicked his mouse. His dual monitors flickered once before turning bright red.
Files began opening automatically, one after another. Bank statements from the Grand Cayman National Bank showing monthly $50,000 deposits. High-definition footage from the gas station’s back room—the footage Vance believed his deputies had destroyed—showing him standing over a terrified Ethan Vance, shooting him and laughing as he returned to his cruiser.
Vance’s heart pounded against his ribs. His hand shot toward the desk phone to call his IT chief.
The desk phone was dead. There was no dial tone. Suddenly, the overhead lights throughout the entire station went completely dark.
Three seconds later, the emergency generator kicked in, casting an eerie red glow down the hallway. Vance pulled his Glock 21 from its holster, his boots pounding against the carpet as he headed toward the main corridor.
