Chapter 4
Outside the ballroom, the cold autumn rain lashed against the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, creating a chaotic backdrop of flashing blue and red emergency lights. Thomas Vance ran blindly through the labyrinthine service corridors of the historic Sterling estate. His expensive leather shoes slipped on the damp concrete floor of the loading dock, sending him crashing into a stack of empty wooden pallets. He cursed loudly, scrambling back to his feet with bruised shins and a torn tuxedo sleeve.
His phone vibrated violently in his pocket. He pulled it out, seeing Elena’s name flashing on the screen, followed immediately by a text message: THEY CAUGHT ME. RUN, YOU IDIOT.
Thomas’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He knew that once the federal agents unlocked his encrypted offshore servers, there would be no plea deal, no golden parachute, and no escape from a decades-long federal prison sentence. He had to reach his private vehicle parked in the underground VIP garage. It was his only remaining ticket out of the state.
He pushed open the heavy steel fire door leading down to the subterranean parking structure. The damp, exhaust-filled air hit his lungs like ice. Shadows stretched long and menacing under the flickering fluorescent lights overhead. Thomas jogged toward his black luxury sedan, fumbling frantically through his pockets for the electronic key fob.
As he approached the vehicle, a pair of headlights suddenly flickered to life, blinding him with a harsh, glaring white beam. Thomas threw his hands up to shield his eyes, stumbling backward against a concrete support pillar.
“Stop right there, Thomas,” a deep, resonant voice echoed through the concrete cavern.
Step by step, a tall figure emerged from the glare of the headlights. It wasn't a federal agent. It was Marcus Sterling, Arthur’s thirty-five-year-old nephew and the chief operations officer of Sterling Logistics, who had just flown in from an international shipping audit. Marcus wore a heavy trench coat, his expression carved from stone and bitter disappointment.
“Marcus,” Thomas choked out, forcing a fake, nervous smile. “Thank God. You have to help me. The old man has completely lost his mind. He’s calling the feds over a simple accounting misunderstanding.”
Marcus walked slowly toward him, his hands tucked deep into his coat pockets. The distance between them closed until Marcus was standing just an arm’s length away.
“An accounting misunderstanding?” Marcus repeated, his voice dangerously calm. “Is that what you call draining forty-two million dollars from the children’s cancer charity fund to buy offshore real estate?”
Thomas swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. “That was... that was an investment hedge. It was supposed to be temporary.”
Without warning, Marcus’s fist connected squarely with Thomas’s jaw. The sharp crack of impact echoed off the concrete walls. Thomas crumpled to the floor, tasting copper and salt as blood pooled in his mouth. He groaned, clutching his aching jaw while staring up in terror at his cousin.
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“That’s for stealing from dying children,” Marcus said coldly, wiping his knuckles with a handkerchief. “And this next part is for breaking my grandfather’s heart.”
Before Marcus could pull Thomas to his feet, the screech of tires echoed down the ramp. Two unmarked federal SUVs blocked the exit of the underground garage, their blue lights painting the concrete in flashing shades of crimson and azure.
