Page 122 of Never Forget

My heart is in my throat, trying to see in through the windows to see if I can see anything, but the flashing lights are reflecting off the glass too harshly, and there are too many bodies inside to see through them. Why do they need so many officers to arrest one dude?

Finally, the doors swing open.

Four agents move out of the way, two of them holding the doors open. The others take positions at the wings, holding their weapons like there might be a standoff at any moment.

Scott is next to emerge. His hands are cuffed behind his back, an agent gripping him by the arm as he guides him out onto the sidewalk. Francis follows a step behind, two agents flanking him, his expression surprisingly calm despite all the rifles slung across the chests of the officers on either side of him.

Instinctively, I take a step forward. Cory catches me by the forearm, reminding me of our instructions to stay here until the suspect is apprehended and safely in the arresting officer’s vehicle.

I force myself to stay put, fingers curling into fists at my sides.

Scott scans the crowd but doesn’t see me. He looks a little dazed, eventually fixing his gaze on the pavement a few feet ahead of him as another agent directs him to stop beside a black SUV. His shoulders are drawn tight beneath the sweat-dampened tank top he’s been wearing since this afternoon when this whole insane operation started.

“You’ve got the wrong man,” Francis says loudly, his nasal voice carrying across the otherwise quiet block. No doubt putting on a show for the many phones pointed his way. He’s losing his earlier calm the closer to the vehicle he gets. “This man framed me. This entire meeting was his idea. He contacted me, told me he’d stolen company property and wanted my help. I only came here in good faith.”

Nobody answers him. Scott turns his head to give him a look so withering, Blake would be proud. Francis averts his eyes, unwilling to make eye contact with the man he’s trying to throw under the bus to save his own ass. An agent pats him down methodically before checking the cuffs around his wrists, she looks over his shoulder like she’s waiting for someone.

“I was coerced!” Francis continues, trying to wiggle away as much as his restraints allow. “Mr. Riley has been unstable since he was terminated. I tried to talk him down.”

Still, no one responds. The silence seems to irritate him more than if they’d argued or told him to shut up.

“My attorneys will have this cleared up before morning,” he protests, trying to face the officer in charge of holding him. Instead of paying attention to him, the officer gives Scott a sympathetic lift of her eyebrows.

One of the agents who raided the facility steps in front of Francis with a small notebook in hand.

“Francis Tuft?”

“Yes,” he says, straightening his shoulders.

The agent gives a single nod. “Francis Tuft, you are under arrest…”

Every time Francis interrupts the agent reading him his Miranda rights, the agent patiently waits until he pauses to take a breath, then continues reading over them. He finally shuts up and lets the agent finish when he notices another agent step up to Scott.

“Mr. Riley?”

Scott nods, and the agent removes his handcuffs. “Thank you for your cooperation. If you don’t mind, we would like to take your statement.”

“Yes, of course,” he says, rubbing his wrists. He looks around until he spots the officer that initially walked him out. “You couldn’t have gone a little easier on me?”

“WHAT?!”

Francis seems to have been knocked out of whatever stupor he’d been in for the last several seconds. His eyes bulge with outrage.

“You’re letting him go? Are you fucking kidding me?!”

Two officers start leading Francis away while he tries to pull away, ranting and raving about they’re going to be sorry. Apparently his lawyers are the best lawyers, and he has powerful friends who are going to fix this.

The moment the door to the SUV opens and they’re guiding Francis to step into the vehicle, I decide he’s close enough to being in the vehicle and take off running.

Scott sees me just before I collide with him. My arms wrap around his neck, his around my waist, and we squeeze each other so hard, I’m not sure either of us can breathe. But I don’t need to breathe. I need to feel that he’s okay.

“It’s over,” he murmurs into my hair.

A scuffle behind us pops our bubble, and I look to see Francis being wrestled to the ground. He’s struggling against them hard now, fighting hard enough that two more officers come to help the two that were putting him in the car.

“Oh, it’s over alright,” Francis spits. “Over for you! You’ll see. You’re finally going to learn your place. The people I have behind me, they’re powerful people. People that are about to own you.” He laughs maniacally as his legs are restrained before he’s lifted off the ground. He looks more unhinged than I’ve ever seen him, so much so that I’m worried he’ll find a way to not stand trial. “You’ve already lost, and you don’t even know it. You have no idea what’s coming. You’re ruined, all of you. No one will work with you now, don’t you see? You’re finished! Every venue, every station, every label. You’re dead in the water. You’re about to lose everything and I will fucking own your ass.”

He keeps screaming, even when they’ve finally gotten him strapped into the vehicle. We can hear the muffled shouts until they pull away.