Chapter 18 - THE TRAP IS SETBy Sunday evening, Jonathan’s forensic work had paid off in a massive way.
I sat in Arthur Whitmore’s private study, surrounded by mahogany bookshelves and a crackling fireplace, while Jonathan projected a digital dossier onto the smart-screen mounted on the wall.
“We didn't just trace the IP address,” Jonathan announced triumphantly, clicking his mouse to reveal a high-resolution photograph and a detailed background report. “Meet Marcus Vance—no relation to me, thankfully. He’s a disgraced former federal prosecutor who pivoted to private corporate espionage five years ago. He was Mason’s primary legal fixer and the architect behind the offshore holding company Apex Horizon.”
Arthur Whitmore narrowed his eyes, studying the photograph of a sharp-featured, middle-aged man in an expensive gray suit. “Marcus Vance. I remember him. He represented a rival real estate developer who tried to launch a hostile takeover of one of my subsidiaries back in twenty-twenty-two. Ruthless bastard, but smart enough to never leave a paper trail.”
“Until now,” Jonathan said, pulling up a secondary file containing banking records and text logs. “Marcus thought he could blackmail Rachel into dropping the restitution charges so Mason could secure a lighter sentence and eventually access whatever hidden funds might remain. But when we traced his proxy server, we found something even more interesting: Marcus didn't just hold a contingency file for Mason. He was embezzling from Mason’s own offshore stash behind his back.”
A cold, dark smile crept across my face. “Honor among thieves.”
“Exactly,” Jonathan nodded. “Marcus is scheduled to board a private flight out of the municipal airport tomorrow night at midnight, headed straight for Zurich with five million dollars in liquid capital he stole from Mason’s secondary accounts.”
Arthur stood up from his leather armchair, leaning on his cane, his eyes flashing with the cold, calculating brilliance of a billionaire titan who loved nothing more than a decisive checkmate.
“Well, then,” Arthur rumbled, a dangerous edge to his voice. “It sounds like Marcus is about to experience a very sudden, very permanent flight cancellation.”
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“What do you want to do?” I asked, looking up at Arthur.
“We don’t call the police just yet,” Arthur replied smoothly. “We let Marcus think he’s winning. We let him send his little threats, and tomorrow night, right as he boards that private jet... we trap him in a federal snare he will never, ever talk his way out of.”
