Chapter 6 - Unraveling the Web
“Get Mave to the panic room behind the master library!” I barked into my tactical communicator, my hand instantly dropping to the tactical SIG Sauer P226 concealed beneath my suit jacket.
“Move, Mave!” Wesley roared, appearing in the hallway with a submachine gun raised, grabbing Mave by the arm and pulling her toward the secure corridor.
“Garrett!” Mave cried out, looking back in terror.
“I’ll be right behind you!” I shouted, though we both knew it was a lie designed to keep her moving.
The reinforced steel double doors of the penthouse study shuddered under the impact of an explosive charge. Smoke billowed through the seams as the lock mechanism blew apart in a shower of sparks.
Three heavily armed men in black tactical gear poured through the smoking breach, their assault rifles raised.
I didn't hesitate.
Dropping to one knee behind the heavy oak desk, I fired twice through the wood. The first mercenary dropped instantly, a clean round through his ceramic chest plate knocking the wind and life out of him. The second and third opened fire, chewing the mahogany desk into splinters as wood chips rained down over my head.
I rolled to the side, returning fire with calculated precision. One round caught the second mercenary in the shoulder, spinning him into the wall. The third lunged around the desk with a combat knife, his face hidden behind a black balaclava.
We crashed to the floor, rolling over the shattered glass of my fallen scotch bottle. He swung the blade downward in a vicious arc. I caught his wrist mid-air, bending the joint backward until bone snapped with a sickening pop. He screamed, and I drove my knee upward into his chest, putting him out cold.
Panting heavily, I rose to my feet, wiping blood and glass shards from my sleeve.
Wesley jogged back into the study, checking his weapon. “Panic room is sealed, Boss. Nobody’s getting in there without a plasma torch. But we’ve got a bigger problem.”
“Talk to me,” I said, stepping over the unconscious mercenary.
“The strike team didn't just breach the penthouse. They uploaded a data-siphon into our private server before we jammed their signal,” Wesley said, his face grim. “They didn't just come to kill us, Garrett. They came to steal the ledger.”
“What ledger?”
“The offshore accounts holding the operating capital for the entire Hail empire,” Wesley said. “If Victor Ashford gets those account numbers, he doesn't just destroy us financially—he seizes every asset we own within forty-eight hours.”
A cold realization washed over me. This wasn't just a brute-force revenge attack by a scorned father. It was a corporate takeover executed with military precision.
“Who gave them the access code?” I asked quietly.
Wesley hesitated, swallowing hard. “There’s only three people in the world who know the root encryption key. You, your mother... and Marcus Vance.”
Marcus. My chief financial officer, my father’s most trusted advisor, and a man who had sat at our family dinner table for fifteen years.
“Where is Marcus right now?” I asked.
“He was supposed to be at the midtown branch reviewing our tax structures,” Wesley replied. “I checked his tracker. He’s currently boarding a private jet at Teterboro Airport... bound for Geneva.”
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I stared at the shattered study doors, then at the smoking remains of the mercenaries. The web was tangled deeper than I thought, but the threads were finally snapping into place.
“Wesley, prep the chopper on the roof,” I said, cocking my pistol and sliding a fresh magazine into place. “We’re going to the airport.”
