Chapter 8 - The Ghost Of The Boardroom
The downtown financial district was deserted at midnight, the towering glass skyscrapers looming like cold monuments against the starless sky. Clara’s car tore around the corner, its tires screeching against the asphalt as she killed the headlights and pulled into the subterranean parking garage of Vance Global Enterprises.
In the passenger seat, Helen calmly checked the brass key in her pocket while Martha sat in the back, gripping the leather-bound diary like a shield.
“His private elevator requires a biometric scan,” Helen warned as Clara threw the car into park and cut the engine. “Even if the front doors are locked, Richard will be in his top-floor executive suite feeding documents into the industrial shredder.”
Clara popped her door open, stepping out into the cold concrete garage with a purposeful stride. She wore her white sleeveless top and dark trousers, the layered gold necklaces swinging lightly against her chest.
“He doesn’t need biometric scans for the old freight elevator,” Clara said, walking swiftly toward the far corner of the subterranean level. “My father installed a mechanical override in ninety-four. He taught me how to use it when I was twelve.”
Helen and Martha exchanged a brief glance of quiet astonishment before hurrying to keep pace with her.
Clara pried open a rusted metal panel on the wall beside the freight doors, revealing a set of manual copper levers. With a sharp tug, the heavy steel doors groaned open, revealing a dark, utilitarian shaft lit only by a dim emergency bulb overhead.
As they stepped inside, Clara pulled down the primary lever, and the cage began its slow, grinding ascent toward the penthouse suite.
“If he’s down there destroying the original hard drives,” Helen said quietly, her eyes fixed on the rising floor numbers, “we won’t just lose the evidence. We’ll lose the legal standing to reclaim the company.”
Clara stared up at the digital floor indicator as it ticked closer to the top.
“He won’t have time to finish,” Clara replied coldly. “I left my phone recording an open audio line to his personal desk phone. He’s so arrogant, he hasn’t even realized he’s broadcasting his destruction to my voicemail.”
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The elevator came to a sudden, jarring halt with a metallic thud. The gate slid open to reveal the dimly lit, expansive floor of the executive penthouse, where the sound of tearing paper echoed rhythmically through the silent halls.
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