Chapter 8 - The Sniper’s Choice
The impact of the bullet sent a shower of wood splinters spraying across the stone balcony. Arthur instinctively dropped to one knee, rolling hard to his left and pressing his back against the thick stone pillar of the terrace archway. He raised his pistol, scanning the surrounding tree line, but the darkness was absolute, swallowing any trace of the hidden shooter.
Down in the courtyard, Victor Thorne didn't even flinch at the gunshot. He simply stood beside the marble fountain, his hands still tucked inside his heavy trench coat, a grim, satisfied smile playing across his thin lips.
“Nice shot, isn't it?” Victor called out, his voice echoing smoothly through the damp night air. “One of my associates from the old days. Former military. He doesn't miss, Arthur. Right now, his crosshairs are locked directly onto the center of your forehead. If you twitch, if you raise that pistol an inch higher, your brains will decorate this lovely stone patio.”
Arthur pressed his back harder against the pillar, his breathing controlled and steady despite the adrenaline roaring in his ears. His mind raced, calculating angles, distances, and probabilities. The sniper was positioned somewhere in the upper canopy of the eastern oak grove—roughly three hundred yards out. At that distance, with a standard handgun, returning fire was suicide.
“You want me dead, Victor?” Arthur shouted back, keeping his voice level. “Then why send a sniper? Why not finish it yourself right here?”
“Because dying quickly is a mercy you don't deserve, Arthur,” Victor replied, taking a slow step up the first stone riser of the terrace stairs. “I want you to crawl. I want you to walk back into that study, open the main vault, and transfer every remaining liquid asset of Vance Global into the humanitarian relief fund bearing my family’s name. Once the transfer is verified, I’ll send you the GPS coordinates to the cabin where the girl is waiting.”
“And if I refuse?” Arthur challenged, his eyes locked onto Victor’s face.
“Then the next bullet won't miss your head,” Victor said softly. “It will pierce the living room window downstairs, right through the antique rocking chair where your wife used to sit. And tomorrow morning, the news will report that old Arthur Vance finally lost his mind and ended it all out of guilt for ruining his family.”
Victor turned slowly on his heel, walking back toward the shadows of the weeping willow without looking back, as if he knew with absolute certainty that Arthur had no other choice.
Arthur remained frozen on the cold stone for three long seconds. The red laser dot flickered across the stone floor near his boots, then vanished into the dark.
Slowly, Arthur stood up. He didn't run. He walked backward through the shattered terrace door, stepping back into the darkened study where Marcus was still cowering on the floor near the bookshelf, clutching his knees in silence.
Arthur didn't look at his nephew. He walked straight to the antique partners desk, popped open the hidden floor safe concealed beneath the bottom drawer, and pulled out a heavy, platinum hardware token—the ultimate master cryptographic key to the entire Vance Global financial grid.
He plugged the token into the laptop. The screen flashed a blinding white, demanding biometric authentication.
Arthur pressed his thumb against the glass scanner. A synthetic voice chimed: “Master override accepted. Enter transfer destination.”
Before Arthur could type in the offshore account number Victor had shouted across the courtyard, the study’s heavy oak doors—the ones locked from the outside—suddenly began to rattle violently as someone on the other side slammed their shoulder against the wood with brute force.
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“Mr. Vance! Mr. Vance, open up!” a muffled voice screamed from the hallway. It wasn't Marcus, and it wasn't an intruder. It was Mrs. Gable, sounding entirely frantic. “The south wing is on fire!”
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