“No.”
He raised the pistol, pointing it directly at my chest. “You think a piece-of-trash restraining order can stop me?”
“No,” I said evenly. “But an armed threat recorded on federal surveillance will do quite a lot.”
A sudden flash of uncertainty crossed his face.
I stepped aside.
Behind me stood Ethan and six federal agents in full tactical gear, their weapons trained on him, their badges fully visible.
“Federal agents!” Ethan shouted, his voice echoing down the street. “Drop the weapon! Hands in the air!”
Garrick froze, his arms shaking. “You set me up,” he whispered.
“No. You made every single choice yourself.”
He glanced desperately back toward his running truck.
“Do not even think about running,” Ethan warned, tightening his grip on his rifle.
Garrick’s pistol clattered loudly against the wooden porch. The tactical agents instantly forced him down onto the floor and cuffed him while he screamed that my mother belonged to him, that the money was his, and that none of us knew who we were dealing with.
