Chapter 12 - The Descent
The monitor went black, the live feed cutting out as the aircraft dropped off primary radar tracking. The silence in the ballroom was heavier than before, suffocating and absolute. Arthur stared at the dead screen, his fingers whitening as he gripped the edge of the mahogany desk until his knuckles cracked. For the first time in his life, the patriarch of the Vance empire looked entirely defeated.
“Dad,” Clara said, her voice dropping all emotion, replaced by a cold, razor-sharp focus. “Get up.”
Arthur slowly raised his head, looking at his daughter. The bruised eye, the torn wedding dress memory, the betrayal—it had all coalesced into something far more dangerous than grief. Clara wasn't crying. She wasn't trembling. She was calculating.
“The transponder didn't just turn off, and that plane didn't crash,” Clara said, walking over to the computer console and tapping a sequence of override codes. “Viktor isn't flying to South America. That was a decoy vector designed to draw our security satellites away from the North Sea.”
Marcus let out a low whistle from the floor, his smirk fading slightly as he realized Clara was far more observant than her twin or her husband had ever given her credit for. “Well, well. Looks like the little bride has a tactical mind after all.”
Clara ignored him, her fingers flying across the keyboard. A secondary satellite feed blinked alive on the screen, tracking a private military airstrip located on a private island off the coast of Maine—property owned by a shell corporation registered directly to Marcus Vance.
“Flight 774 is circling back,” Clara announced, pointing to the glowing green vector on the secondary map. “They’re landing at your private facility in Maine in twenty minutes, Marcus. They aren't dumping her; they’re meeting your primary buyers.”
Arthur stood up, shaking off the momentary despair like an old coat. He picked up his Sig Sauer, ejected the magazine to check the rounds, and slammed it back home with a sharp clack.
“Get the chopper prepped on the roof,” Arthur ordered into his lapel comms link, connecting directly to the estate's private tactical pilot. “Full armaments. We’re going hunting.”
Marcus laughed, though the sound was strained now as he struggled against the heavy zip-ties. “You think you can just storm my facility? That island is guarded by a private army of ex-military contractors who don't answer to the Vance board or the federal government. You’ll be flying straight into a meat grinder.”
Clara walked over to Marcus, standing directly over him. She reached down, grabbed him by the lapels of his trench coat, and hauled him up until their faces were inches apart.
“Good,” Clara whispered, her eyes burning with an intense, terrifying fire. “Because I have a lot of anger to unpack, and I want a front-row seat.”
May you like
Without waiting for another word, Clara turned on her heel and strode toward the private elevator, leaving Marcus bound on the floor and her father right behind her, stepping out into the stormy night to board the waiting chopper.
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