“We aren’t here for his money,” Caleb said.
“No,” Jackson agreed, tapping the screen. “But his money is how we tear his house down. I’ve already mirrored his private phone, his department servers, and his personal residence security feeds. He thinks he’s invisible.”
Caleb walked to a steel workbench along the back wall. He pulled away a faded blue tarp, revealing five locked Pelican cases he had buried beneath the floorboards seventeen years earlier. He opened the heavy latches one after another.
Inside were suppressed SIG Sauer sidearms, short-barreled carbines, night-vision optics, encrypted communications units, and tactical breaching charges—greased, maintained, and pristine.
“We don’t kill him,” Caleb said, his voice dropping an octave. “Death is too clean. Death makes him a martyr to his corrupt union. We take his badge, we take his money, we take his freedom, and we leave him sitting in a federal cell for the rest of his life where every inmate he ever put away knows his name.”
