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Chapter 864:
Ten minutes later, inside a soundproof interrogation room, two senior agents from the Violent Crimes Task Force listened to the audio files. Alycia’s distorted voice filled the room, explicitly ordering Abbie to poison June. The agents cross-referenced printed bank ledgers against the dates of the recordings. The lead agent’s face went grim. He paused the playback and immediately reached for the phone.
Within thirty minutes, a federal judge had stamped a high-risk, no-bail arrest warrant.
Cole’s phone buzzed in the SUV. He read the text.
Warrant signed. NYPD ESU and FBI SWAT moving on her cell ping.
Cole exhaled — a low, humorless sound. “Drive to Queens. I want to watch p>
On the desolate industrial edge of Queens, a decaying motel sat beneath a gray winter sky. Room 114 smelled of stale cigarette smoke, mold, and dried blood. Alycia Beasley was curled into a shivering ball on a stained mattress, a filthy blanket clutched to her chest. Her eyes were fixed on the small CRT television bolted to the dresser, where the local news anchor was showing footage of June — radiant and victorious outside Sotheby’s.
Black bile rose in Alycia’s throat. She let out a wet, broken sob.
Her burner phone buzzed on the nightstand. An unknown number. Your offshore accounts are frozen. The Feds are outside. Enjoy the cage.
𝖣o𝗻’𝘁 𝗆𝗂s𝗌 ո𝖾w 𝘳𝖾𝘭𝖾𝖺𝗌е𝘀 о𝘯 ѕ.𝗰о𝗺
Absolute, freezing panic seized her lungs. She screamed — feral and broken — grabbed the glass ashtray off the nightstand, and hurled it at the television. The screen imploded with a loud crack, plunging the room into silence.
Then the sirens began.
Red and blue light strobed violently through the dirty blinds. Alycia scrambled off the bed and crawled to the window, peeking through a gap.
Twelve armored cruisers and a SWAT truck had sealed off the parking lot. Dozens of officers in tactical gear were fanning out, rifles trained on her door.
Heavy boots thundered down the hallway outside.
Alycia collapsed backward onto the floor, wrapped her arms around her head, and let out one long, piercing shriek as the door came in.
Her reckoning had arrived.
The steel battering ram hit the motel door with a deafening crash that shook the building to its frame.
The wooden door flew inward, tearing off its hinges and slamming against the interior wall with explosive force. Jagged splinters sprayed across the filthy carpet, landing inches from Alycia’s bare feet.
Four heavily armored NYPD Emergency Service Unit officers flooded the room in a synchronized wave, ballistic shields raised, short-barreled rifles leveled. Tactical flashlights swept through the dim, moldy air.
“Get down! On the ground! Show me your hands p>
Alycia shrieked. The blinding light stabbed into her eyes. She scrambled backward on her hands and knees until her spine hit the rusted bathroom doorframe. She threw her hands over her face.
The beams locked onto her. The officers took in the sight of her face — the deep, infected wounds, the dark fluid seeping from the edges — and even their hardened composure flickered for a fraction of a second.
“Suspect located! Move in p>
Two officers lunged forward and grabbed her arms. They drove her face-down onto the carpet with practiced force. The rough fibers scraped against the open wounds on her cheeks. She let out a guttural, tearing wail.
“Stop — please — you’re hurting me p>