Chapter 24 - THE AUCTION OF BLOODThe main hall of the Citadel was an underground amphitheater built of polished dark granite and bulletproof glass. Forty individuals sat in plush leather seats arranged in a semicircle, masked in high-society elegance—billionaires, cartel proxies, rogue intelligence directors, and arms dealers from five continents.
At the center of the stage stood Henrik Vane.
He was a man in his late sixties, impeccably groomed, with slick silver hair, a manicured beard, and a monocle-like digital lens over his left eye. He was holding a sleek glass tablet, orchestrating the pre-auction bids with the calm, arrogant demeanor of a king presiding over his court.
I slipped quietly into a seat near the back row, my face half-shadowed by the ambient blue lighting of the hall.
"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen," Vane’s voice boomed through the acoustics of the granite room. "We are minutes away from opening the bidding on Lot 1: The Sovereign Reserve of Vault 108. Four billion dollars in un-indexed gold bullion, bearer bonds, and untraceable digital currency."
A murmur of excitement rippled through the elite crowd.
"However," Vane continued, a cruel smile touching his lips, "as many of you know, access to Vault 108 requires a live biometric key—specifically, the arterial blood and genetic profile of the late Arthur Whitfield’s direct heir."
Vane tapped his tablet. A massive projection screen behind him flickered to life, showing a high-definition satellite feed of a small farmhouse in Vermont.
My chest tightened so hard I could barely breathe.
"Our extraction team in Vermont was delayed," Vane announced to the crowd, "but they have secured the target's wife and child as leverage. Daniel Whitfield is currently in transit to Geneva—or so he thinks. He believes he is coming to rescue his family, but he is walking directly into our net."
The crowd chuckled softly—a collective sound of wealthy predators enjoying a theater of cruelty.
A boiling rage, hot and violent, surged through my veins. They hadn't just targeted me—they had lied to me, using a fake infiltration timeline to keep my focus on Switzerland while they moved on my farm!
I reached into my sleeve, my fingers locking around the cold steel of my concealed firearm.
BZZZT.
My earpiece crackled with static. Victoria’s voice came through, fast and breathless: "Daniel! It's a lie! He's using a pre-recorded loop of your house! Marcus checked the Vermont sweep—Grace and Lily are completely safe! The federal team secured your farm twenty minutes ago!"
The surge of relief almost made my knees buckle. It was a psychological tactic designed to break my composure if I was already in the room.
I let out a slow, quiet breath, my fingers easing off the trigger.
I stood up from my seat in the back row, my footsteps echoing loudly against the granite floor.
"You're behind on your news, Vane," I called out, my voice cutting through the hall like a razor blade.
The forty guests turned around in unison. Henrik Vane froze on the stage, his digital eye-lens scanning my face as his expression transformed from smug arrogance to sheer, unadulterated shock.
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"Daniel Whitfield," Vane stammered, backing up a step. "How... how did you get past perimeter security?!"
"You wanted my blood, Henrik," I said, walking slowly down the central aisle toward the stage, my hands tucked casually in my pockets. "I came to deliver it in person."
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