Chapter 14 - The Sting Operation
Mark took the information directly to the state prosecutor’s office and Detective Reynolds.
"Arthur Vance is seventy-four years old now," Reynolds said, pulling up old archived driver's license photos.
"If he's pulling funds in person, he has to show identification or use a verified proxy."
"He won't use a proxy for the final balance," Mark stated with unyielding conviction.
"The trust agreement specifies that the final balance of forty million dollars requires an in-person thumbprint verification."
"He knows Julian is in custody, and he knows Victoria will never see daylight again."
"He's going to cash out the remaining funds and flee the country before we freeze the accounts."
"We set a trap at the central bank branch tomorrow morning," Reynolds decided, slamming his hand on the desk.
"We coordinate with the bank president to delay the payout process and surround the building."
"No," Mark intervened, his eyes flashing with a cold, strategic light.
"If he sees a single police cruiser within two blocks, he'll vanish into thin air just like he did ten years ago."
"We let him walk into the private VIP lounge unhindered."
"I will be sitting in the chair waiting for him myself."
Reynolds shook his head firmly. "Mark, that's reckless. The man is a sociopath who poisoned your wife."
"He poisoned my wife, ruined my family, and threatened my little girl," Mark replied, his voice deadly quiet.
"I am going to look him in the eye when the cuffs go on."
By nine o'clock the following morning, the private VIP suite of First National Bank was eerily quiet.
Mark sat behind the high-backed leather executive chair, dressed in a tailored dark suit.
Plainclothes detectives were positioned throughout the teller hall disguised as customers and security guards.
At precisely ten minutes past nine, the heavy glass doors of the VIP suite swung open.
An elderly man with neatly combed silver hair, wearing an expensive camel-hair coat, stepped inside with a silver-topped cane.
His movements were slow and aristocratic, radiating the smug arrogance of a man who believed he was untouchable.
He walked directly toward the desk, expecting to see the private bank manager.
Instead, Mark slowly turned the executive chair around, facing the ghost who had haunted his family for a decade.
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"Good morning, Arthur," Mark said calmly.
"You've kept us waiting for ten years."
