Chapter 14 - The Blackmail Box
Callahan Industrial Tower was a sleek, imposing monolith of glass and steel in Midtown Manhattan.
At 1:15 PM, wearing a sharp blazer and dark sunglasses borrowed from Grant's late wife's untouched wardrobe, I walked through the revolving doors. Grant was already in the building, using a private service elevator to bypass the lobby.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I swiped the access card at the VIP elevator.
Beep. Green light.
I exhaled sharply as the doors closed, rocketing me up to the 60th floor.
I stepped out onto the plush carpet of the executive suite. The floor was deserted—Arthur's assistant was on her lunch break. I moved quickly down the hall, slipping into Arthur Sterling’s corner office.
Grant stepped out from the adjoining private boardroom a second later.
"Lock the door," Grant whispered.
We tore the office apart. Grant hacked into Arthur's desktop computer using a master override drive, his fingers flying across the keyboard. Meanwhile, I searched the physical space.
"He’s smart," Grant muttered, frustrated. "There are no offshore accounts listed on his hard drive. No emails to Renata."
"Keep looking," I said, running my hands along the bookshelves.
My fingers brushed against a thick, leather-bound copy of The Art of War. It felt strangely heavy. I pulled it off the shelf. It wasn't a book—it was a hollowed-out lockbox.
"Grant," I called out.
He rushed over, taking the box. He grabbed a heavy bronze paperweight from the desk and smashed it against the cheap lock. It snapped open.
Inside was a single USB flash drive and a burner phone.
Grant plugged the USB into his laptop. A folder popped up, labeled simply: Insurance.
He clicked it. The screen filled with scanned documents—bank transfers, wire receipts, and a signed contract between Arthur Sterling and a private security contractor known for fixing "problems."
But there was also an audio file.
Grant clicked play.
"You guarantee the brakes fail on the mountain?" Arthur's voice crackled through the laptop speakers.
"Done," a gruff voice replied. "And the girl?"
"Leave the kid," Renata’s voice chimed in, chilling and arrogant. "She'll survive. A grieving widower with a traumatized child is much easier to manipulate. I'll slide right in."
Grant slammed the laptop shut, his chest heaving as he fought for air. He had the proof. His best friend had murdered his wife.
Suddenly, the handle of the office door jiggled.
Someone was trying to get in.
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"Mr. Sterling, your office is locked," a deep, unfamiliar voice called out from the hallway. "Sir?"
Grant and I exchanged a look of pure panic. Arthur hadn't gone to his squash game. He had sent his personal security to scrub the office.
