Chapter 3 - The Spliced Footage
Frank did not flinch as four laser sights painted bright red dots across his chest.
He slowly lowered his own weapon and placed it on the floor.
"Michael, you have known me for twenty years," Frank said, looking me dead in the eye.
"I would burn this world down before I let anyone hurt Noah."
I stared at the man who had saved my life in three different gang wars.
My heart told me to trust him, but my son had almost died, and I could not afford to be wrong.
"Disarm him," I ordered my guards.
Two men stepped forward, stripping Frank of his spare magazines and his communication gear.
"If you didn't tamper with the bottle, then the security cameras in the kitchen will prove it," I said.
I carried Noah out of the nursery, flanked by a wall of armed men, and headed toward the security control room.
Emily followed closely behind us, her eyes constantly scanning the shadows of the hallway.
We entered the surveillance hub, pushing past the confused security technicians.
"Pull up the kitchen feed from twenty minutes ago," I barked at the head technician.
The man frantically typed on his keyboard, bringing up a grid of high-definition camera angles.
We watched the screen as Margaret left the bottle on the marble counter and walked away to answer the intercom.
Frank walked into the frame a few seconds later.
He approached the counter, reaching his hand out toward the baby bottle.
Suddenly, the video feed violently glitched into a burst of digital static.
When the image returned three seconds later, Frank was gone, and Margaret was picking up the bottle.
"What the hell was that?" I roared, slamming my fist onto the console.
"Someone spliced the footage remotely," the technician stammered in terror.
"The system requires a dual-authorization code to manipulate archived video."
"Who has those codes?" I asked.
The technician swallowed hard, looking at his computer screen.
"You have the primary code, sir."
"And the secondary code belongs to your estranged wife, Victoria."
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Before I could even process that impossible information, the intercom on the desk buzzed loudly.
"Mister Carter, your wife's car just violently crashed through the front gates," a guard panicked over the radio.
