Beatrice let out a high-pitched, screeching wail, throwing her hands over her ears like a cornered animal.
“You promised!” Beatrice shrieked at her son, her mascara running in black rivers down her wrinkled cheeks. “You swore to me on your father’s grave that you burned those footlockers, Silas! You told me the police would never look behind the tobacco racks!”
The observation room dropped into absolute, stunned silence.
Silas turned on his mother, his face twisted into an expression of pure, homicidal madness, his hands balling into fists. “You stupid, senile old cow! You kept the boxes?”
“Hold him!” Callahan roared.
Four federal agents moved in like a coordinated strike team.
Silas lunged toward the elevator, but two agents tackled him across the waist, slamming him face-first into the concrete floor with a concussive, bone-jarring impact.