Chapter 8 - THE TRAP IS SETThree days later, a public notice was filed through our corporate legal team announcing an emergency liquidation auction of remaining high-value assets belonging to the late Caldwell estate—including a private storage facility in upstate New York containing old corporate archives.
It was bait.
And Marcus Vance bit immediately.
We monitored the secure communication lines we had secretly installed on Ryan’s old burner phone. Sure enough, an encrypted text came through from an unknown international number: Meet me at the old warehouse off Route 9 tonight at midnight. Come alone, or I finish what Ryan started.
Instead of sending Ryan, we sent a full tactical team led by my father’s most trusted security detail. But I didn't stay behind in the penthouse.
I sat in the back of an armored SUV parked two hundred yards down the dark, rain-slicked gravel road, watching through night-vision monitors as the team moved silently toward the dilapidated brick warehouse.
Through the thermal scopes, I saw two figures standing inside the dimly lit loading bay.
Ryan. And Marcus Vance.
"You fool!" Vance’s voice crackled faintly through the audio feed of our tactical vests. "You let a woman dismantle six years of work in twenty-four hours? Do you have any idea how much data was on those servers?"
"I didn't know!" Ryan cried out, his voice cracking with sheer terror. "She tricked me! She played the quiet, obedient wife for three years! I swear to God, Marcus, I didn't know she was working with the Morettis!"
"The Morettis don't matter," Vance sneered, stepping into the dim glow of an overhead bulb, a heavy silver revolver gleaming in his hand. "What matters is that the federal investigators are sniffing around those offshore accounts again, and you're the only loose end."
Ryan stumbled backward, tripping over a wooden crate. "Marcus... wait. We're partners. We're family!"
"We were never family, Ryan," Vance raised the pistol, aiming it directly at Ryan's chest. "You were just an empty vessel I filled with stolen money. And vessels can be broken."
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Before Vance could pull the trigger, the warehouse doors blew inward with a deafening crash.
Flash-bang grenades illuminated the interior in a blinding white glare, followed by the crisp, coordinated shouts of our tactical team moving in with military precision.
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