Chapter 2 - THE $100 MILLION BLACKMAIL
A Kid vs. A Syndicate: The Terrifying 10-Minute Countdown That Could Cost a Billionaire Everything!The garage erupted into pure chaos. Mechanics threw down their tools and scrambled toward the polished steel gates, screaming for their lives. No one cared about their high-paying corporate jobs anymore; the primal instinct to survive overrode everything.
"Open the gates! Let us out!" a junior mechanic screamed, slamming his fists against the security shutter.
"It’s locked," the security chief yelled back, his face drenched in sweat as he frantically mashed the override buttons on his wall panel. "The system isn't responding! The kid’s code bypassed the entire facility's mainframe!"
The digital clock on the supercar’s dashboard bled a sinister red, casting an eerie glow over Marcus Hale’s face. The billionaire stood paralyzed in the center of the room. His empire, his reputation, and his life were trapped inside a high-tech cage with a ten-year-old boy covered in grease.
"What do you want?" Marcus roared, his voice cracking with desperation as he stepped toward the boy. "Money? You want millions? I can wire it to any offshore account in the world right now! Just stop the clock!"
The boy, whose name was Toby Vance, didn't even blink. He walked calmly over to a pristine leather rolling chair, sat down, and spun himself around once. He looked completely amused by the terror filling the room.
"I don't want your blood money, Marcus," Toby said, using the billionaire's first name without a shred of respect. "Money didn't bring my father back. Money didn't stop the men you hired from burning our house down to find his journals."
Marcus’s eyes widened. "I didn't order that! That was—that was the Board! The investors! I had nothing to do with the fire!"
"Lie to yourself if it helps you sleep at night," Toby snapped, his calm demeanor briefly cracking to reveal a boiling, deep-seated rage. "But you’re going to open the floor safe beneath your desk upstairs. The real journal. The one containing the master codes for every Chronos Engine you sold to the global elite. Hand it over."
Marcus felt a cold sweat break out across his neck. The journal wasn't just a notebook; it was his ultimate insurance policy. It contained the backdoors to the vehicles of presidents, prime ministers, and tech tycoons who bought his hypercars. If that journal leaked, Marcus wouldn't just go bankrupt—he would be assassinated by his own clientele.
"I can't do that," Marcus whispered, his voice trembling. "If I give you that journal, I’m a dead man anyway."
"Then we can all burn together," Toby replied smoothly, crossing his small arms. "The titanium casing of this engine block will contain the initial blast, but the chemical thermite my father built into the block will liquefy this entire structure in less than thirty seconds. Choose your death, Marcus."
Suddenly, the heavy glass doors at the front of the garage didn't open—they shattered.
Three blacked-out SUVs slammed through the security barriers, tires screeching as they spun out on the polished floor. The doors flew open, and six heavily armed men in tactical gear stepped out, their assault rifles raised and aimed directly at Toby’s chest.
From the lead vehicle, a man in a tailored grey suit stepped out, clapping his hands slowly.
"Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant," the man sneered. "The missing Vance child. We've been looking for you for five years, little boy."
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Marcus gasped, recognizing the man instantly. It was Victor Vance—Arthur’s estranged, ruthless brother, and the shadow investor who had funded Marcus’s rise.
Victor looked at the countdown timer on the dash, which now read ****, and smiled cruelly. "You think you're the only one who knows your father's designs, Toby? Secure the boy, kill Hale, and get me that laptop!"
