Chapter 8 - CheckmateClaire stepped out from behind the shelving unit, her posture completely unyielding, shielding me from Julian’s direct line of sight.
“You’re bankrupting Ashton Ridge Solutions, Julian,” Claire said, her voice ringing clear and steady through the basement. “The board thinks you’re expanding into European markets, but you’re draining the pension reserves into shell companies in the Caymans.”
Julian chuckled, a dry, humorless sound that scraped against the concrete walls.
“And who is going to tell them, Claire? You? You’re suspended pending an internal investigation for embezzlement and industrial espionage. By tomorrow morning’s board meeting, you’ll be indicted, disgraced, and forgotten.”
He gestured to the guards. “Take her portfolio. And search the analyst. I happen to know our new hire has a very interesting flash drive in his possession.”
The two armed guards stepped forward, raising their weapons slightly as they advanced down the narrow aisle toward us. My hand gripped the brass paperweight in my pocket, my heart hammering violently against my ribs.
This was it. Eleven months of unemployment, my mother’s debt, my father’s legacy—all boiling down to a concrete basement floor beneath the Chicago River.
“Don't do it,” I said, stepping out beside Claire.
Julian sneered. “And what are you going to do, Mr. Carter? File a complaint with human resources?”
“No,” I said, holding up my smartphone. “I’m going to press send.”
Julian’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. “What are you talking about?”
“Before we left the tenth floor,” I said, smiling grimly, “I set an automated data packet to release every single decrypted IP log, master override signature, and offshore bank routing number directly to the Securities and Exchange Commission, the Chicago Tribune investigative desk, and all twelve members of the Ashton Ridge board of directors. If my phone isn't unlocked with my fingerprint every thirty minutes, the timer expires.”
Color drained rapidly from Julian’s face. His polished corporate composure shattered into pure, unadulterated panic.
“You lying little—” Julian lunged forward, but before he could take two steps, the heavy steel entrance door behind him was kicked wide open.
Blue and red lights flashed violently against the concrete walls, casting strobing shadows across the entire room.
Federal Marshals and Chicago Police officers poured into the archive room, weapons drawn, tactical gear gleaming in the strobing lights.
May you like
“Federal Bureau of Investigation! Drop your weapons!” a voice bellowed over the chaos.
The two security guards immediately dropped their carbines and raised their hands in the air. Julian Vance stood frozen in place, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as handcuffs were slapped onto his wrists with a sharp, definitive click.
