Miller picked up a carbine, checked the bolt action with a satisfying mechanical clack, and looked at Caleb. “How do we start, Boss?”
“We start by taking away his shadows,” Caleb said.
Part 3: The Fall of an Empire
At 2:15 AM on Friday, Sheriff Vance Vance sat in his plush leather chair inside the Livingston County Sheriff’s Department. The building was silent except for a lone dispatcher at the front desk.
Vance poured two fingers of bourbon into a crystal glass. He was a broad-shouldered fifty-five-year-old with a thick mustache and eyes that had long forgotten how to feel empathy. To him, Livingston wasn’t a community; it was his personal fiefdom. The janitor’s kid was simply another piece of dirt he’d stepped on to remind the locals who controlled the county.
His cell phone buzzed on the mahogany desk.
Vance picked it up. “This better be important.”
