Chapter 1199: Return to New York

“What are you doing?” Larry Griffin’s voice trembled as he watched Greg hang that black bag above Julia’s head. A sinking feeling formed in his gut.

“Why, I’m showing the same mercy you showed the hundreds of families who got cancer because of you,” Greg said with a sneer, attaching the IV tube to the bag of black liquid.

“No, no, stop—what are you trying to do to my daughter?” Larry moved to intervene, but Greg slammed him back with the butt of his gun.

“Come on, you always said this stuff was harmless, right? Otherwise, I’m sure you would’ve disposed of it properly.”

“I don’t understand... What are you talking about?” Larry stammered, panic edging into his voice.

“It’s just coal ash,” Greg said calmly, inserting the IV needle into Julia’s arm with practiced precision.

“Stop it, I’m begging you!” Only now did Larry fully grasp the horror unfolding before him. “I swear, I never illegally dumped that stuff!”

“How much do you want? Name a number. Anything. Just let my daughter go,” Larry pleaded, trying again to approach—only to find the cold muzzle of Greg’s pistol pressed to his forehead.

“I’m afraid this time, money won’t solve your problems,” Greg replied coldly.

“My dad’s a good man! He’s never hurt anyone!” Julia sobbed from her chair, her arms bound.

“Tell your daughter what kind of man you really are. This is your last chance,” Greg said, placing his hand on the IV’s roller clamp.

Larry froze in place, silent. Greg’s expression twisted from mockery to anguish.

“See? Now we’re the same. Just like when I had to watch my daughter die… slowly. First came the nausea, the vomiting, then the fainting from the pain. After that, even morphine didn’t help.”

The black liquid, thick like ink, began to drip slowly into the IV. All three couldn’t help but watch the clear tube as it turned dark, drop by drop.

“Each time she had a pain episode, she’d scream like a trapped animal,” Greg’s voice cracked. “Then the weight loss started. Ten pounds. Twenty pounds.”

Tears streamed down his face. “She turned into a skeleton, small enough to look like she was three… maybe two years old again. And in the end, she was so weak, she couldn’t even cry out. I had to hold my breath and press my ear to her lips just to hear the words.”

Greg was now choking on his grief. “She said, ‘Daddy, help me.’ But I couldn’t do anything.”

“Shut up!” Larry shouted, as if personally attacked. “I never did anything like that! There’s never been proof I dumped coal ash illegally!”

“Stop lying!” Greg roared, grabbing Larry by the throat and jamming the gun into his forehead. “I drove trucks for you. We both know how it worked! You paid out-of-state drivers to dump those barrels of ash right here. The land next to this farm—it's all yours!”

Larry was finally speechless. Julia looked at him in disbelief. “Is that true? Is everything he said true?”

The silence inside the barn was deafening—until a shout came from outside.

“FBI! Don’t move!” It was Clay’s voice.

Before Greg could react, a flashbang bounced off the rotted planks at his feet and exploded with a loud bang.

High above, the barn’s roof burst open as a skylight shattered. Almost simultaneously, a rope was thrown down, and a figure descended.

“Don’t move.” Jack dropped hard, knee driving into Greg’s back as he tried to resist. His cold gaze turned to Larry, who was reaching for the fallen pistol. “That goes for you too.”

At the same time, agents breached the barn’s sidewalls, tearing open the loose planks. JJ rushed forward, clamping the IV line and pulling the needle from Julia’s arm.

“You’re going to be okay. It didn’t get into your system.”

The terrified girl collapsed into JJ’s arms, sobbing uncontrollably.

“Sweetheart, thank God you’re okay,” Larry stammered as he scrambled up to embrace her—only for Julia to instinctively back away and hide behind JJ.

“You gave me that plot of land, remember? But when I said I wanted to build a small vacation cabin there, you said no. So, everything he said… it’s true, isn’t it?”

Larry’s face turned cold. “We’ll talk about this later. Privately.”

“No. We’ll talk about it now,” Julia said firmly.

“You claimed it was too close to a water source, that the land was too soft to build on. But I only wanted a small wooden cabin. That excuse made no sense.”

Her eyes bored into him. “So, from Grandpa’s time onward, our family’s been burying coal ash under that land, haven’t we?”

By now, Jack had cuffed Greg and handed him off to the responding officers. He turned his gaze to Larry Griffin.

“The EPA will be here tomorrow morning. The FBI will assist their investigation. Might be better for everyone if you just come clean, Mr. Griffin.”

All eyes turned to Larry. He hesitated—but then stood taller, straightened his jacket, and donned his old arrogance like a second skin.

“That’s private property. If there’s an issue, talk to my lawyers. They’ll handle it.”

Jack didn’t bother replying. He turned instead to Julia.

“Funny. I could’ve sworn I heard you say the land legally belongs to Julia Griffin.”

“It does,” Julia said firmly, glaring at her father. “That land isn’t yours, Dad. It’s mine. And I’m cooperating fully with the EPA.”

Sometimes, Jack thought, he didn’t entirely mind leftists. Some of them were just naive—not evil.

—

The festival in Margrave was still going strong. After wrapping up the case, the Fugitive Task Force left the cleanup to Jubal and returned to Georgia.

One poor soul, however, had it even worse than Jubal—because he was on a plane back to New York early the next morning.