The sirens of the police cars shrieked, their rhythmic flashes blinding anyone caught in the glare. Mr. Charlie stood frozen, a statue of a man paralyzed as a sea of officers swarmed to close the net.
Cuffs bit into Mr. Charlie's wrists. He watched, stone-faced, as several of his own men were hauled away. Some of them… were they moles? Undercover officers?
He had always been the architect of caution, but it seemed even his strongest walls had been breached. Amara wasn't just playing a game; she was executing a scorched-earth campaign.
And in the end, the debt of his past was finally being called in.
"I never killed him." Mr. Charlie's voice was a flat line, directed at the investigator across the table.
"Then why were you there? What was your business?" The officer pressed, digging for a crack. Mr. Charlie hadn't uttered a single admission regarding Bram's death. "Or… were you involved in the drug network—"
