Chapter 6 - THE SILENT ARCHITECT
Richard froze. "What do you mean? Victor was the head of the operation. We have his records, his files—"
"Victor was an idiot with an expensive suit," Marcus interrupted, turning to face his brother. "He didn't have the intellect to design an international laundering system of this scale. Look at the ledger again, Richard. Look at the routing codes for the master account."
Richard pulled up the encrypted tablet and quickly scanned the lines of code. Suddenly, his breath caught in his throat. His face went pale.
"These routing codes..." Richard stammered. "These aren't commercial banking codes. These are... Department of Defense top-secret clearance protocols."
"Exactly," Marcus said. "Victor wasn't running the syndicate. He was working for someone inside the Pentagon. Someone who had the power to order my unit into Kunduz ten years ago. Someone who intentionally left us without air support so I would lose my arm and my team would be silenced."
A heavy silence fell over the room. The wind howled through the broken boardroom windows, carrying the distant sound of police sirens below.
"Who is it, Marcus?" Richard asked, his voice shaking slightly. "Who gave the order?"
Marcus pulled a worn, faded photograph out of his pocket. It was a picture of his old military squad from a decade ago. Standing right next to a younger Marcus was a high-ranking military officer, wearing a broad smile and a uniform covered in medals.
"Defense Secretary William Vance," Marcus whispered. "Our father's brother. My other uncle."
Richard dropped the tablet. "Uncle William? The Secretary of Defense?! Marcus, that's impossible! He’s second in line to the military chain of command! If you accuse him without absolute proof, it’s not just treason—it’s a national security catastrophe!"
"I don't need to accuse him," Marcus said, his eyes blazing with a dangerous, cold fire. "He's already on his way here."
At that exact moment, the private elevator at the back of the boardroom chimed. The doors slid open with a smooth, quiet hiss.
Stepping out into the red emergency light was a man in an immaculate dark suit, flanked by four men in plainclothes tactical gear bearing no military insignia. The man had silver hair, cold steel-blue eyes, and an aura of absolute, terrifying authority.
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It was Defense Secretary William Vance.
"Hello, nephews," William said, his voice smooth as silk as he stepped into the room, stepping casually over the broken glass. "I must admit, Marcus... that performance on Fourth Street was masterclass. Truly worthy of a Vance."
