Chapter 3 - THE WEB OF DECEIT
Two hours later, deep beneath the glittering glass towers of the financial district, an emergency meeting was convened in the top-floor boardroom of the Apex Financial Tower. The room was shrouded in heavy shadows, lit only by giant monitors displaying crashing stock prices and viral news feeds.
At the head of the mahogany table sat Victor Vance—Marcus and Richard’s estranged uncle, and the executive chairman of the board. Sitting around him were five of the city’s most influential billionaires, politicians, and media moguls.
panic was thick enough to choke on.
"How could Arthur be so stupid?!" one board member shouted, slamming his fist on the table. "He publicly humiliated Marcus Vance on live social media! Do you have any idea what kind of spotlight that puts on our private transactions?!"
"Calm down," Victor Vance said coldly, pouring a glass of scotch with unwavering hands. "Arthur was a disposable pawn. A middle manager with a big mouth and a small brain. His arrest changes nothing."
"Changes nothing?!" a senator sitting at the table yelled. "Marcus Vance isn't just a retired war hero, Victor! He’s the head of the Black Spectre intelligence network! If he digs into Pendelton Capital’s offshore reserves, he will find the shadow accounts for Operation Ironclad!"
Victor slammed his glass down, the heavy crystal shattering on the mahogany. The room went dead silent.
"Marcus has one arm and a broken body," Victor spat out, his eyes flashing with raw hatred. "He has been hiding in the shadows for ten years while we built this empire from his sweat and blood. He thinks a viral video and a Four-Star General brother make him invincible? He is nothing!"
Suddenly, the lights in the boardroom flickered once, twice, and completely died.
The entire skyscraper plunged into darkness. The back-up generators roared to life, but instead of the normal lights, emergency red ambient lighting bathed the room in a blood-colored glow.
The massive electronic security doors of the boardroom clicked. The magnetic locks disengaged with a loud CLANG.
Every man in the room froze. Victor reached into his jacket, pulling out a concealed suppressed pistol. "Who’s there?!" he demanded, pointing the weapon toward the double doors.
The doors slowly pushed open.
Walking out of the darkness, his heavy boots tapping rhythmically against the marble floor, was Marcus Vance. He was no longer wearing his faded jacket. He was wearing a tailored black tactical suit, his empty right sleeve pinned neatly at his shoulder. In his left hand, he held a sleek, military-grade electronic detonator device.
Behind him stood no soldiers. No police officers. Just Marcus alone.
"Hello, Uncle Victor," Marcus said, his voice terrifyingly calm in the crimson light. "It's been ten years."
May you like
Victor’s hand trembled on the gun, but he kept it pointed at Marcus's chest. "You walked straight into the lion's den, Marcus. You think your military reputation protects you here? I have twenty armed security guards on this floor!"
Marcus tapped his earpiece gently. "You had twenty security guards. They were relieved of duty forty-five seconds ago."
