Chapter 8 - THE FALL OF AN EMPIRE
The struggle was short, brutal, and entirely one-sided. Alexander pinned Roger to the hard concrete, his fists raining down with the righteous fury of a father whose children had been systematically tortured for two agonizing years.
Marcus jogged up, pulling Alexander off the whimpering doctor before the blows could turn fatal.
Roger lay sprawled on the concrete, clutching his bloody nose, gasping for air like a landed fish. His expensive cashmere sweater was torn and stained with grease and dirt. His briefcase had popped open, spilling thick stacks of offshore bank account statements and forged corporate transfer documents across the pier.
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder by the second as half a dozen Los Angeles Police Department cruisers converged on the marina, their red and blue lights flashing against the gray concrete.
Within minutes, officers swarmed the pier, slapping heavy steel handcuffs onto Dr. Roger Hale and hauling him roughly to his feet.
As they pushed him past Alexander, Roger glared back, blood dripping from his lip, a pathetic, desperate sneer twisting his features.
“You think you’ve won, Alexander?” Roger laughed hysterically. “Without my signature on the board restructuring, the entire hospital network goes bankrupt by Friday! You’ll lose everything! The hospitals, the research labs, your entire fortune!”
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Alexander didn't even blink. He looked down at the spilled financial documents, then up at his former friend with absolute, frozen contempt.
“Let it burn,” Alexander said quietly. “My sons are alive. That’s the only fortune that ever mattered.”
