Chapter 7 - The Interrogation in the Dark
The two professional operatives froze instantly, their weapon barrels pointing uselessly toward the floor as plaster dust settled like gray snow over their black tactical gear.
“Old lady’s got teeth,” the shorter one growled, his voice muffled behind his balaclava. “Careful, she’s packing heavy.”
“Shut your mouth,” the leader hissed, raising his hands slowly away from his chest rig. “Listen to me, Mrs. Vance. We don’t want to hurt you. Mr. Petrov just wants a signature. Sign the asset transfer papers, and we walk out of here right now. No more bloodshed.”
“Mr. Petrov can take his asset transfer papers and shove them straight down his expensive Italian loafers,” I replied, my voice hard as iron, keeping the shotgun leveled squarely at the center of his chest. “You think breaking into my home in the middle of the night gives you leverage? Look out the front window, boys.”
The leader glanced cautiously toward the living room window. Down the driveway, the flashing red and blue lights of three backup sheriff cruisers were already tearing up the gravel, their sirens screaming through the silent valley night.
“You triggered a silent panic beacon when the door sensor was bypassed,” I explained coldly. “Deputy Miller’s backup was automated the second your little digital box touched my deadbolt.”
The operative cursed under his breath, realizing they had walked straight into a well-laid trap.
“Drop your tactical vests, drop your comms units, and kick them across the floor toward me,” I ordered, stepping slightly into the dim hallway light so they could see the steady, unblinking glare in my eyes. “Do it now, or I’ll let the state troopers explain your funeral arrangements to Viktor Petrov.”
With slow, reluctant movements, both men unclipped their heavy tactical vests, letting them drop heavily to the floor, followed by their encrypted satellite radios and sidearms.
“Now,” I said, nodding toward the kitchen floor, “get on your knees and interlock your fingers behind your heads. If I see so much as a twitch of your shoulders, I’ll fill your legs with rock salt before the troopers even reach the porch.”
They knelt down onto the hardwood floor, utterly humiliated by an elderly widow with a vintage shotgun.
Heavy boots pounded up the front steps, and the front door burst open wide. Captain Thomas Vance rushed in, his service pistol drawn, flanked by four heavily armed deputies.
“Eleanor! Are you alright?!” Captain Vance shouted, his eyes darting from me to the two kneeling men in tactical gear.
“I’m fine, Thomas,” I said, lowering the safety on the shotgun and resting the butt against the floorboards. “Just bagged a couple of stray raccoons trying to dig through my trash.”
Captain Vance stared at the two captured operatives, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his weathered face. He looked at his deputies. “Cuff these professionals and bag their comms gear. I want every encrypted text traced back to Viktor Petrov’s private server by morning.”
As the deputies slapped heavy steel cuffs onto the mercenaries and dragged them out into the cold night air, Captain Vance walked over to me, shaking his head in sheer disbelief.
May you like
“Eleanor, I’ve seen some tough ranchers in my thirty years on the force,” the Captain said softly, “but you’re a whole different breed.”
“Arthur taught me well,” I replied, looking out the broken window at the flashing lights. “And my children taught me that mercy is just an invitation for wolves.”
