Chapter 9 - The Ghost from the Past
The neon sign of the dingy Queens motel flickered with a low, agonizing buzz, casting a sickly pink glow across the peeling wallpaper of Room 204.
Alexander Carter sat on the edge of a sagging mattress that smelled faintly of damp carpet and cheap bleach. His tie was long gone; his shirt was unwashed for two days. He stared blankly at the glowing screen of a cracked laptop, watching a live stream of the financial news network.
The banner headline scrolled ruthlessly across the bottom of the screen:
WHITMORE GLOBAL UNVEILS RECORD BREAKING Q2 EARNINGS UNDER CEO EMMA WHITMORE.
“Damn her,” Alexander muttered, his voice cracking. He slammed his fist down onto the rickety wooden nightstand, rattling an empty styrofoam coffee cup.
He had lost everything. His empire, his penthouse, his cars, his freedom of movement, and his reputation. The board had erased his name from the corporate history books as if he were nothing more than a bad software glitch.
Suddenly, a sharp knock echoed at the door.
Alexander froze. His heart leaped into his throat. Could it be a process server? Or worse—creditors?
“Who is it?” he called out, his voice trembling as he stood up.
“An old friend, Mr. Carter,” a smooth, gravelly voice replied from the hallway.
Alexander hesitated, then unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open a few inches. Standing in the dim light of the concrete walkway was a man in a sharp, slate-gray trench coat, wearing mirrored sunglasses despite the late hour. Behind him stood two burly men in identical dark suits.
“I don’t know you,” Alexander said, trying to push the door shut.
A gloved hand caught the edge of the door, stopping it effortlessly.
“You don’t know me yet,” the man in the trench coat said with a thin, humorless smile, pushing his way uninvited into the cramped motel room. “My name is Victor Vance—no relation to your former CFO. And I represent a consortium of investors who are extremely unhappy with how Emma Whitmore staged her little corporate coup.”
Alexander’s eyes widened slightly. He stepped back, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers. “What kind of investors?”
May you like
Victor pulled a sleek leather cigar case from his coat, offering one to Alexander, who numbly shook his head. Victor bit the end of the cigar off and spat it onto the floor before speaking again.
“The kind of people who have deep pockets, short tempers, and a mutual interest in seeing Whitmore Global burn to the ground,” Victor said smoothly. “We’ve been watching you, Alexander. You’re a brilliant strategist who simply trusted the wrong woman. We want to give you a second chance.”
