Chapter 8 - The Final AccountingA spotlight from the interior office mezzanine suddenly clicked on, blindingly bright, illuminating the center of the hangar floor.
Crosby Vane stood on the metal balcony overlooking the Gulfstream, wearing an expensive tailored overcoat, a silver-plated revolver clutched loosely in his right hand. He didn't look terrified; instead, a twisted, desperate grin spread across his face.
"Lawson Mercer," Vane sneered, his voice carrying clearly over the hum of the idling jet engines outside. "I should have known you'd track me down. But you're too late, Mercer. The corporate restructuring papers are signed, the offshore funds are untraceable, and your little brats back at the mansion are running out of time even as we speak."
"Your poison was neutralized forty-eight hours ago, Vane," I said coldly, walking slowly toward the base of the metal stairs, keeping my rifle leveled at his chest. "And Prescott is dead."
Vane’s smile falter for a fraction of a second. "Prescott... that incompetent fool."
"He told me everything before he died," I continued, closing the distance. "About the pharmaceutical trials, about the syndicate board, and about how you ordered the hit on Genevieve because she wouldn't stay quiet."
"Genevieve was a bleeding-heart fool who didn't understand the scale of what we were building!" Vane snarled, raising his revolver. "And you're just as blind, Lawson! Without our syndicate, the Mercer name is nothing more than a glorified mafia family living in a museum!"
"The Mercer name was built on honor before criminals like you infested it," a cold voice echoed from the shadows behind the mezzanine stairs.
Vane whipped around in panic.
Elena stepped out from the darkness of the upper landing, her assault rifle raised and locked directly on Vane's spine.
Vane's eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated horror as he stared at her face—specifically at the jagged silver scar across her jawline.
"No..." Vane whispered, his color draining instantly. "That's... that's impossible. I watched them throw your body into the river in Detroit."
"Turns out I'm very hard to get rid of, Crosby," Elena said, her voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly whisper. "Just like the truth."
"Shoot him!" Vane screamed in panic, trying to swing his revolver toward her.
Before his finger could even brush the trigger, Elena pulled hers.
The gunshot echoed like a clap of thunder inside the hangar. Vane staggered backward, the silver-plated revolver slipping from his fingers and clattering against the metal grating. He clutched his shoulder, gasping for air as his knees buckled beneath him, and he crashed hard onto the floor of the mezzanine.
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I walked slowly up the metal stairs, stepping over his fallen weapon, and stood over him as he writhed in pain.
"It's over, Crosby," I said quietly.
