Chapter 4 - The Counterstrike.By noon, the financial markets were in absolute freefall as news of the federal raid on Vance Global leaked to the press.
My father’s stock plummeted twenty percent in a matter of hours, erasing billions in shareholder value.
I sat in a secure briefing room at the Naval yard, staring at a wall covered in connection webs and surveillance photos.
My legal counsel, a ruthless JAG lawyer named Major Thomas Sterling, tossed a burner phone onto the table.
“We intercepted a transmission from Julian’s encrypted channel,” Sterling said, crossing his arms.
“What did my idiot brother do now?” I asked, rubbing the throbbing scar tissue on my neck.
“He just wired five million dollars to an offshore account associated with the Vipers, a mercenary outfit operating out of Eastern Europe,” Sterling revealed.
A cold sense of dread washed over me, not for my own safety, but for the audacity of my family.
They weren't just trying to cover up their crimes; they were actively trying to eliminate the threat.
“They know they can’t beat the evidence in a fair courtroom, so they are going to ensure I never make it to the preliminary hearing,” I concluded.
Admiral Reed entered the room, his face grim as he reviewed the latest intelligence reports.
“Commander, I am officially assigning a protective detail to you until the trial commences,” the Admiral ordered.
“With all due respect, sir, a protective detail just gives them more targets to shoot at,” I argued, standing up.
“Arthur Vance is a cornered animal, and cornered animals don't play by the rules of engagement,” Reed warned.
“Neither do I, Admiral,” I replied, grabbing my sidearm from the lockbox and sliding it into my shoulder holster.
That night, I didn't stay in the fortified military barracks as ordered.
I went back to the penthouse apartment I used to live in, knowing it was the first place Julian’s hitmen would look.
I wanted to draw them out, to catch them in the act and tie the assassination attempt directly to my father’s bank accounts.
I sat in the dark living room, the city lights below offering the only illumination as I waited in the absolute silence.
Around two in the morning, the faint, metallic scrape of a lock pick echoed from the front door.
I drew my weapon, controlling my breathing to slow my heart rate, slipping into the tactical mindset that had kept me alive overseas.
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The door eased open, and three shadows slipped into the foyer, holding suppressed automatic weapons.
They thought they were hunting a broken socialite, completely unaware they had just stepped into the den of an apex predator.
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