Chapter 3 - Smoke and Cinders
The old brick incinerator sat behind the derelict carriage house, half-swallowed by wild blackberry briars and ivy. As Adrian crept closer, the acrid stench of burning parchment and melting plastic stung his nostrils. The orange glare of the fire licked against the mossy stones, casting erratic, dancing shadows across the clearing.
A tall figure in a tailored charcoal suit stood before the open iron door, pitching thick manila folders into the roaring flames with a long metal pitchfork.
Marcus Vance.
His immaculate silver-streaked hair was slightly mussed by the wind, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing pale, hairless forearms slick with sweat. Beside him stood a massive steel transport crate—the kind used for shipping large dangerous animals internationally. The door of the crate stood wide open, its latch stained with dark, dried streaks of crimson.
“I told you to use the industrial shredder in the main office, Marcus,” Adrian said, his voice cutting through the crackle of the fire with absolute, terrifying stillness.
Marcus froze mid-swing, the pitchfork hovering inches from the open door of the incinerator. He didn’t drop the tool, nor did he panic instantly. Instead, he slowly lowered the pitchfork, straightened his back, and turned around with a slow, sardonic smile playing across his thin lips.
“Adrian,” Marcus said smoothly, smoothing down his vest. “I thought you were still upstairs tearing Vivienne apart over a stray dog. You always did have a sentimental streak that clouded your professional judgment.”
“Where is he, Marcus?” Adrian asked, stepping out from the cover of the oak trees. The iron poker in his hand dragged along the dirt, leaving a shallow furrow in the wet earth.
“The beast? He put up quite a fight, I’ll give him that,” Marcus chuckled, stepping casually toward the steel transport crate. “We had to use three separate tranquilizer darts loaded with large-animal formula just to get him into the van. Vivienne was beside herself—she hates messes. But business is business, Adrian. A guard dog of that size is a liability when you're executing a complete corporate restructuring.”
Adrian’s grip on the iron poker tightened until his knuckles turned the color of bone. “You didn't restructure my company, and you didn't just remove a liability.”
“Oh, but I did,” Marcus sneered, taking another step back toward the carriage house. “The board voted unanimously this morning while you were in Chicago. Your signature was forged on the final acquisition papers—papers that Vivienne so graciously helped us witness. Once the probate court finalizes your ‘accidental’ disappearance during a late-night estate check, everything belongs to us.”
“Who is ‘us’?” Adrian demanded, closing the distance between them.
A shadow detached itself from the doorway of the carriage house. A second man stepped into the firelight—broader, shorter, wearing a black tactical vest and holding a suppressed Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun casually leveled at Adrian’s chest.
“Me,” a cold voice rasped from the dark.
Adrian didn't flinch. He looked past the gun barrel straight into the eyes of the man holding it. It was Viktor Cole—an international asset recovery specialist who was supposed to be serving a twenty-year federal sentence in a maximum-security prison in Colorado.
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“Viktor,” Adrian said, a grim, humorless smile touching the corners of his mouth. “I thought the FBI had you locked away in a concrete box.”
“People escape, Adrian,” Viktor said, his finger resting lightly on the trigger. “And sometimes, rich corporate partners pay very large retainers to make sure old business rivals disappear permanently into the woods. Drop the poker.”
