Chapter 12 - The Blackout on 41The emergency backup generators failed to kick in. The panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows offered only the gray, overcast light of a Chicago morning, muted by the heavy rain sliding down the exterior glass.
I stood frozen beside Marcus’s desk, the titanium flash drive clutched tightly in my right hand, my left sliding instinctively toward the holster beneath my coat where my SIG Sauer rested.
Click.
The sound of a heavy metal door latch unhinging echoed from the private interior staircase connecting the executive suite to the rooftop helipad.
“I know you’re up here, Adrian,” a voice called out through the dark, echoing across the open-plan office.
It wasn't Marcus. It wasn't Elena.
It was a voice I hadn't heard in five years—smooth, cultured, carrying the distinct cadence of a man who had never worked a day in his life yet controlled fortunes from the shadows.
Julian Vance. Marcus’s uncle, and the former chairman of the federal oversight committee that cleared my initial venture capital funding back in my twenties.
“Julian,” I said, stepping away from the desk into the open corridor between the empty cubicles. “I thought you retired to the Mediterranean.”
A tall, silver-haired man stepped out of the stairwell shadows, wearing a charcoal overcoat, his hands tucked neatly into his pockets. He didn't look like a criminal mastermind; he looked like a retired diplomat taking an evening stroll.
“Retirement is a myth, Adrian, especially when you hold the keys to the kingdom,” Julian said softly, his shoes clicking against the polished concrete floor. “Marcus was a fool. Elena was an amateur. They thought this was about corporate embezzlement or stealing a few million dollars in shell accounts. They didn't understand the broader picture.”
“Which is what? Using a legitimate tech firm to funnel black-ops intelligence funding?”
“Which is survival,” Julian corrected, his tone hardening. “The world is built on leverage, Adrian. Your father knew it. That’s why he built this company with our backing. When he tried to walk away... well, accidents happen on icy roads, don’t they?”
My blood ran cold. My father’s fatal car crash ten years ago wasn't an accident.
“You killed him,” I whispered.
May you like
“We managed his transition,” Julian replied smoothly, closing the distance between us. “Just like we tried to manage yours. But you had to bring a 150-pound mastiff into the equation and turn a routine corporate restructuring into a personal crusade.”
Julian reached inside his overcoat, his hand gripping the handle of a suppressed pistol. “Hand me the flash drive, Adrian. And we’ll let you walk out of this building alive to enjoy whatever is left of your estate.”
