Chapter 13 - The Cornered RatFor a long, agonizing moment, nobody moved. The executives pressed themselves against the far walls, recognizing the sheer, murderous intent radiating from Owen.
Greg stared at Owen as if he were looking at a ghost. His jaw trembled, and the charismatic charm that had built his career evaporated, leaving only a cornered rat.
"You're dead," Greg whispered. "The police... they said you resisted."
"You hired a hit squad, Greg," Owen replied, stepping slowly toward the head of the table. "Just like you hired the man who ran my wife off the road. Just like you hired Elena to terrorize my daughter to find this."
Owen reached into his pocket and slammed the tiny black micro-SD card onto the glass table. The sharp clack echoed like a gunshot.
"Every ledger. Every offshore wire transfer. Every email between you and the cartel," Owen listed, his voice rising with every word. "I already forwarded a copy to the FBI Cyber Division, the SEC, and every major news outlet in the country. The sale is dead. You are dead."
The lead buyer stood up, her face pale. "We're leaving. This deal is terminated." The executives scrambled for the exit, rushing past Marcus, who let them go. Within seconds, only Owen, Marcus, and Greg remained in the massive boardroom.
Greg looked at the empty room, then at the memory card on the table. A chilling, high-pitched laugh suddenly escaped his lips. He ran a hand through his perfectly slicked hair, messing it up.
"You think you won?" Greg chuckled, his eyes wide and frantic. "You think handing me over to the Feds fixes anything, Owen? You're so naive. You always were the code monkey, hiding behind your screens while I dealt with the real world."
Greg reached under the boardroom table.
"Hands where I can see them!" Marcus barked, drawing his Glock and leveling it at Greg's chest.
Greg slowly pulled his hand back up. He wasn't holding a gun. He was holding a sleek, black satellite phone.
"The people I work for, Owen, they don't care about the SEC or the FBI," Greg sneered. "They care about their money. Over two hundred million dollars currently cycling through Vanguard's servers. And the moment that broadcast started playing, they knew the pipeline was compromised."
"It's over, Greg," Owen said, gripping his crowbar tightly. "There's nowhere left to run."
"I'm not running," Greg smiled, a desperate, feral look in his eyes. He tossed the satellite phone onto the table. "I just got a text from our cartel liaisons. They aren't sending lawyers. They're sending 'cleaners.' And they were already in the building, waiting for the deal to close."
Down the hall, the distinct, terrifying sound of automatic gunfire erupted.
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Marcus cursed violently. "He's right. I've got multiple heavily armed tangos moving up the stairwells! They're executing the security guards!"
"They aren't here to save me, Owen," Greg laughed, taking a step backward toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. "They're here to erase everyone who knows about the ledgers. Which means we're all going to die."
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