This is my house. What gives you the right to do this? You can complain later. Right now, stay out of our way. You can't just destroy someone's home and tell them to stand aside.
Funny thing about a house like this is that guys like you don't usually own something this nice unless you didn't earn it clean. Without another word, the officers brushed him off and continued dismantling his home. You're destroying everything my wife and I own. At least tell me what you think you're going to find. Whatever we're looking for, we'll find it.
Now, stay back. But you know what? Maybe if you weren't hiding something, you wouldn't be so worried. I have nothing to hide, so I'm not worried, officer. I'm watching you all make a mistake you'll never be able to undo.
The cops kept ripping his home apart, never suspecting that the man before them was the one who could hold them accountable. Stella Waldridge was asleep when the first flashbang went off. It was 4:52 in the morning. Somerset Court was quiet, the kind of quiet you only get right before the sun comes up. Stella was alone in bed.
Her husband, Francis Waldridge, was still at the office, buried in case files, the way he always was during trial season. Then the front door exploded inward. Stella didn't have time to scream. One second she was asleep. The next she was staring up at a wall of black armor and rifles pointed at her chest.
Men in helmets poured through her bedroom door, shouting words that didn't make sense yet. Hands. Hands. Get your hands where I can see them. And her whole body went cold before her brain caught up to what was happening.
On the ground now. She hit the floor. A boot pressed into her back. Someone yanked her wrists behind her and zip tied them so tight the plastic bit into her skin. She was still in her robe.