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Noah’s smile was razor-sharp. “Change of plans.”

Before the guard could react, Noah drove a fist into his gut, knocking the wind from his lungs. Alex stepped forward, slamming the man’s head against the gate with a sickening crack.

Two more guards moved, reaching for their weapons.

Alex pulled his firearm, his voice deadly calm. “Don’t.”

They hesitated, and in that half-second, the reinforced steel of the front gate exploded inward as FBI tactical swarmed the estate.

Gunfire erupted inside. Noah and Alex moved fast, slipping through the chaos as Fairchild’s hired mercenaries tried in vain to protect their boss.

Noah kicked in the doors, his weapon raised. “FAIRCHILD! U.S. ATTORNEY’S OFFICE. HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!”

Inside, Fairchild stood by his bar, unbothered, swirling coffee in a large mug. He smirked. “Took you long enough.”

Alex stepped forward, his gun never wavering. “On your knees. Now.”

Fairchild exhaled dramatically, setting his glass down. “This is cute. But you and I both know you’re making a mistake.”

Noah’s jaw clenched. “Only mistake was not coming for you sooner.”

Fairchild moved—reaching for a hidden pistol under the bar.

Noah didn’t hesitate.

A single shot rang out.

Fairchild collapsed, his shoulder blooming red.

He screamed, clutching the wound as Noah loomed over him, shoving him onto his belly and slamming the cuffs onto his wrists.

“I hope you enjoyed your last drink,” Noah muttered. “Because the only thing you’ll be sipping now is prison tap water.

* * *

9:15 AM – Downtown Pierre

While Fairchild bled onto his designer suit, the rest of his empire was crumbling.

Evan Shipley and a fleet of FBI agents descended on the offices of judges, politicians, and law enforcement officials.

The state’s attorney barely had time to stand up from his desk before Evan Shipley put him in cuffs.

Matt Brandt was found hiding in a courthouse conference room, sweating through his suit, screaming about how he had done everything Fairchild wanted.

Brad Killian personally oversaw the arrest of two FBI agents and a U.S. Marshal, dragging them from their offices in full view of their colleagues.

The mayor and deputy mayor of Pierre were pulled from a breakfast meeting, their faces ashen as reporters snapped photos of them being loaded into a squad car.

By noon, the sun was at its peak, and Pierre was no longer under Fairchild’s thumb.

* * *

12:00 PM – FBI Resident Agency, Pierre

Fairchild sat in an interrogation room, his arm bandaged, his expensive suit ruined.

Noah leaned against the wall.