Ch.64: Sterling's End

The FBI APC carrying Miller and the prisoners had barely left the curb when the back doors of the courthouse burst open again.

But this time, it wasn't a raid. It was an escape.

Marcus Sterling sprinted down the service ramp, his expensive suit torn, his tie gone. He was carrying a briefcase—the 'Doom Box' that contained the hard codes for the city's infrastructure.

He wasn't running to the police. He was running to a black helicopter hovering low over the adjacent parking structure.

"He's making a run for it!" Silas shouted, pointing.

"The hell he is," Julian growled.

He didn't run for the APC. He ran for the motorcycle parked by the barricade—a sleek, electric interceptor abandoned by a traffic cop during the riot.

"Julian, wait!" I screamed.

He didn't wait. He gunned the engine and tore across the plaza, jumping the curb and speeding up the spiral ramp of the parking garage.

"Get in!" I yelled at Silas.

We scrambled into the APC. I took the wheel again, slamming it into gear. We couldn't catch the bike, but we could cut off the exit.

I drove around the block, heading for the roof access ramp.

Above us, the helicopter was descending. Sterling was climbing the stairs to the helipad, clutching the briefcase like a lifeline.

Julian reached the roof first.

He didn't stop. He accelerated, hitting the ramp at full speed.

The bike launched into the air.

For a second, time froze. The helicopter. Sterling. The bike.

Julian let go of the handlebars in mid-air. The bike crashed into the helicopter's tail rotor.

*CRUNCH.*

The rotor shattered. The helicopter spun violently, losing altitude. It crashed onto the far side of the roof, rotors shearing off and slicing through the concrete.

Julian landed hard, rolling to a stop near the edge.

Sterling was thrown back by the blast. He scrambled up, dazed, coughing in the smoke.

He looked at the burning wreck of his escape. He looked at Julian, who was slowly getting to his feet, limping but relentless.

Sterling ran for the stairwell door.

But Julian was there. He tackled Sterling, slamming him into the concrete wall.

The briefcase flew open. Hard drives and encryption keys scattered across the roof.

Sterling fought back with the desperation of a drowning man. He clawed at Julian's face, trying to gouge his eyes.

But Julian was younger, stronger, and fueled by a rage that had been burning for months.

He punched Sterling. Once. Twice.

Sterling slumped to the ground, blood pouring from his nose.

Julian stood over him. He picked up one of the shattered rotor blades—a jagged piece of steel.

He raised it.

"For Liam," Julian whispered.

"No!"

I burst onto the roof, Silas right behind me.

"Julian, stop!"

He froze. The blade hovered inches from Sterling's throat.

Sterling looked up, his eyes wide with terror. "Do it," he wheezed. "End it."

"Don't give him what he wants," I said, walking toward them. The wind whipped my hair across my face. The smoke stung my eyes.

"He deserves to die," Julian said, his voice trembling with the effort of holding back.

"Yes," I said. "He does. But not like this. Not by your hand."

"He killed your brother, Harper. He tried to kill you."

"And if you kill him now," I said, stepping between them, "you become him. You become a murderer who solves problems with violence."

"I don't care," Julian said. "I just want it to be over."

"It is over," I said. "Look at him."

I pointed at Sterling.

He was a broken man. Bleeding. Defeated. His empire was gone. His reputation was ash.

"Killing him is too easy," I said. "It's a mercy."

I looked at Julian. I put my hand on his arm. It was rock hard, vibrating with tension.

"Let him live," I whispered. "Let him live in a cage. Let him watch as we rebuild everything he tried to destroy. Let him be forgotten."

Julian looked at me. Then he looked at Sterling.

The rage slowly drained from his eyes, replaced by something colder. Contempt.

He dropped the steel blade. It clattered on the concrete.

"You're right," Julian said. "He's not worth the stain on my soul."

Sterling started to laugh. A high, hysterical sound.

"You think prison scares me?" he spat, blood bubbling on his lips. "I own the judges! I own the wardens! I'll run this city from my cell!"

"No," I said, kneeling down so I was eye-level with him. "You won't."

I picked up a piece of the shattered hard drive from the briefcase.

"Because you're not going to a federal prison, Marcus. You're going to the Hole. The black site you built for political dissidents. The one that doesn't exist on any map."

Sterling's laughter died.

"You can't," he whispered. "That's illegal."

"I'm a lawyer," I said, standing up. "I know exactly what's legal. And thanks to the Patriot Act clause you lobbied for... indefinite detention of domestic terrorists is perfectly legal."

I turned to Silas.

"Bag him."

Silas grinned. He pulled a black hood from his belt.

"With pleasure."

He shoved the hood over Sterling's head. He zip-tied his hands.

"Get him out of here," I said.

As Silas dragged him away, Sterling didn't scream. He didn't fight. He just went limp.

He knew.

Physical death was an escape.

Legal death is worse than physical death.