"Sophie’s hands were shaking. The wedding hall blurred around her. Music.

The green text on the laptop screen blared like a neon sign in the dim server room: Transfer Complete.

Sheriff Brody stared at the screen, his face flushing a deep, mottled purple. The tactical shotgun in his hands trembled as he leveled the barrel squarely at Arthur’s chest. "You stupid old man," Brody snarled, his voice stripped of its usual southern charm, leaving only raw venom. "Do you have any idea what you've just done? You just blew up your own legacy."

"My legacy was built on stolen money, Brody," Arthur replied, his voice calm, entirely devoid of fear. He stepped in front of Julian and Clara, shielding them with his own body. "I sent the unredacted files to the Department of Justice, the FBI field office in Seattle, and the editorial desk of the New York Times. You can't shoot your way out of a satellite uplink."

The three deputies standing behind Brody shifted uncomfortably. They had been told they were hunting dangerous fugitives who had desecrated a grave and stolen a police vehicle. Now, they were staring down the barrel of a federal investigation, looking at a man whose funeral they had attended just yesterday.

"Sheriff," the youngest deputy—the one Clara had tricked at the loading dock—said, slowly lowering his sidearm. "Sheriff, put the weapon down. If the FBI has those files, it's over."

"Shut up, Miller!" Brody barked, keeping the shotgun raised. His eyes darted frantically around the server room. He was a trapped animal calculating the cost of a bloodbath. "If I kill them, we have time to run. We wipe the servers, grab the foundation plane at the county strip, and disappear before the Feds even read the attachments."

"You're not getting on a plane, Brody," Julian said, stepping out from behind his uncle. He held up his cell phone, the screen displaying an active call timer. "Because Clara didn't just smash a casket today. When we were driving over here, she called the State Police. They've been listening on speakerphone for the last ten minutes."

Right on cue, the wail of heavy sirens pierced the night air. These weren't the familiar, localized sirens of the Oak Creek sheriff's department. These were the deep, roaring sirens of State Highway Patrol cruisers, converging on the architectural firm from every direction. Red and blue lights flooded the street outside, illuminating the shattered glass of the lobby.

Deputy Miller immediately holstered his weapon and raised his hands, stepping away from Brody. The other two deputies quickly followed suit.

Brody looked at his men, then at the flashing lights outside, and finally at Arthur. The fight drained out of him all at once. The shotgun slipped from his grip, clattering loudly against the server room floor.