Chapter 66 - The Net Closes
"They crossed the final line," Owen said, his voice carrying a lethal, quiet gravity that made the surrounding firefighters turn their heads.
Within an hour of the arson attack on the South Battery Center, Bennett-Sterling’s private intelligence apparatus was fully unleashed. Working in direct coordination with the Charleston Police Department, the State Law Enforcement Division (SLED), and the FBI, Marcus tracked Damian Sterling’s rental vehicle to a private marina on Johns Island.
Owen and I arrived at the marina command post alongside Sheriff Robert Hayes and eight armed tactical officers.
The private marina was shrouded in heavy coastal fog. Docked at the end of the primary pier was a seventy-foot luxury motor yacht, its twin diesel engines idling quietly in preparation for departure toward international waters.
"They're preparing to slip into the Atlantic," Sheriff Hayes said, checking his tactical vest. "Damian has a private charter flight waiting in the Bahamas. If that boat clears state waters, extraditing him will take years."
"He isn't clearing the harbor," Owen said, his jaw locked in stone. He turned to me. "Maren, call Frank Miller."
I pulled out my phone and dialed the president of the longshoremen's union. "Frank. A private yacht is attempting to flee the Stono River channel. We need the maritime gates closed."
"Consider it done, Maren," Frank’s gravelly voice replied instantly. "No one burns down our women's center and sails out of this town."
Five minutes later, as Damian’s yacht throttled its engines and began pulling away from the slip, two massive, steel-hulled Charleston Port Authority tugboats emerged from the fog, positioning themselves directly across the mouth of the channel. Behind them, a three-hundred-foot municipal dredge swung its steel boom across the waterway, completely sealing the exit.
Damian’s yacht slammed its engines into reverse, churning the dark water into frothing white foam as searchlights blazed from the shoreline.
Sheriff Hayes raised his megaphone. "Vessel Obsidian Star! Cut your engines immediately! You are surrounded by federal and state law enforcement! Prepare to be boarded!"
Tactical officers boarded the yacht with weapons drawn.
Within three minutes, Damian Sterling and Tyler Vance were led down the gangway in heavy steel chains.
Tyler Vance was sobbing, his face smeared with soot, blabbering about how Damian had paid him twenty thousand dollars in cash to destroy the foundation servers.
Damian Sterling, however, glared at Owen and me with unadulterated venom. His wet clothes clung to his shivering frame, and his hands trembled violently behind his back.
"You think you’ve won, Bennett?" Damian spat, venom dripping from his voice. "My family has sixty billion dollars! My lawyers will have these charges reduced to criminal mischief by tomorrow morning!"
Owen stepped forward, stopping inches from Damian's face. Owen’s expression was devoid of anger, radiating only the absolute, sovereign dominance of a man who had crushed every predator who had ever threatened his home.
"You committed felony arson on an occupied educational facility, Damian," Owen whispered, his voice like the crack of winter ice. "That is attempted murder under South Carolina law. Furthermore, the FBI just executed a search warrant on your Manhattan penthouse. They found the encrypted hard drives where you traded non-public maritime logistics data."
Damian’s face lost every shred of color. His knees buckled, and Sheriff Hayes had to hold him up by the arms.
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"Your father took twenty-five years in Terre Haute," Owen continued with cold finality. "You’ll be joining him in federal prison before the end of the month. The Sterling dynasty is dead."
As Damian was pushed into the back of the transport van, I looked out over the fog-draped waters of the Lowcountry, breathing in the clean sea air. The last serpent had been crushed beneath our heels.
