Chapter 4 - THE FALL OF THE MASK
The federal hammer fell on a Tuesday evening.
Marcos’s estate was suddenly surrounded by dark blue sedans. Blaring red and blue lights reflected off the grand stained-glass windows of the dining room.
Alma sat alone at the long mahogany dining table, staring at a plate of food she hadn't touched.
Marcos burst into the room, his hair disheveled, carrying a silver metallic briefcase. He was throwing stacks of bearer bonds and foreign passports into the case.
“Marcos!” Alma screamed, jumping out of her chair. “What is happening? Who are those cars outside?”
“The Federal Financial Crime Task Force,” Marcos snarled, not even looking at her. “Someone leaked the master ledger from the shell accounts.”
“What are we going to do?” she wept, running to him and grabbing his sleeve. “Tell them it’s a mistake! Tell them you're rich! Use your money!”
Marcos spun around and shoved her back so hard she collapsed onto the velvet sofa.
“My money is in a Swiss vault under a pseudonym!” Marcos sneered, his handsome face twisting into an ugly mask of pure malice. “And you are the sole signatory on forty-seven counts of grand bank fraud, tax evasion, and money laundering!”
“No!” Alma shrieked, clutching her head. “No, Marcos! I didn't take any money! I just lived here! You bought me those pearls! You brought me to this house!”
“And you accepted it all without asking a single question because you were greedy!” he spat. “You wanted a queen’s life, Alma? Queens face the executioner when the kingdom falls. Have fun in federal prison.”
Marcos turned toward the back exit that led through the underground wine cellar to the cliffside forest.
“Marcos, please!” she sobbed on her knees, reaching out toward his retreating figure. “Don't leave me! I have nowhere to go!”
“You have the floor,” he called back coldly over his shoulder. “You always belonged there.”
The front doors of the mansion were smashed open. Armed federal agents flooded the marble foyer, their boots thunderous against the stone.
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“Federal agents! Don't move!” a voice shouted through a megaphone.
Alma lay huddled on the expensive Persian rug, weeping uncontrollably as the cold steel of handcuffs clicked around her wrists.
