Chapter 12 - THE VISIT TO CAGE FOURTEEN
The federal penitentiary located in the limestone foothills was a fortress of gray concrete, razor wire, and crushing despair.
Sunday morning sunlight struggled to penetrate the thick, tinted security glass of the maximum-security visitation hall.
I walked through the heavy steel security doors wearing a tailored white wool pantsuit and black sunglasses, my footsteps echoing sharply against the linoleum floor.
Two armed federal guards flanked my sides not as protection, but as a formal display of executive authority granted by the federal receivership board.
I sat down in the plastic booth marked Visitation Station Fourteen.
Behind the reinforced ballistic glass sat Richard Vance.
He looked unrecognizable.
His expensive designer suits had been replaced by a faded orange jumpsuit; his once-manicured silver hair was unwashed and matted; and his skin had the sickly, pale tone of a man who hadn't seen natural sunlight in over a year.
When he saw me walk up and sit down on the other side of the glass, his eyes lit up with a pathetic, desperate flash of vindictive triumph.
He picked up the heavy plastic telephone receiver with his shackled hands and slammed it against the wall mount.
I picked up my receiver slowly, sliding my sunglasses down the bridge of my nose so he could see the absolute chill in my eyes.
“You finally showed up, Clara,” Richard sneered through the audio box, his voice raspy and dripping with malice.
“I figured vanity would bring you here once you realized your global shipping lanes are about to hit a brick wall.”
“You look tired, Richard,” I said calmly, resting my elbow on the counter.
“The orange jumpsuit really brings out the despair in your complexion.”
“Save your breath for the paperwork,” Richard snapped, pressing a sheet of paper against the glass.
“Look at the terms, girl.”
“Sign over fifty percent of the voting shares in Apex-Sterling, and I’ll have my lawyers transmit the decryption keys for the Blackwood Trust before noon tomorrow.”
“Refuse, and I’ll tie up your maritime licenses in appellate court until every investor you have runs for the hills.”
I didn't reach for the paper.
I didn't even blink.
I simply stared at him like a scientist observing an insect trapped under a microscope.
“Richard, let me ask you a question,” I said, my voice completely steady.
“Do you remember what you told me the night you stood over that shallow pit on Black Ridge?”
Richard’s sneer faltered for a fraction of a second.
“You told me that a delicate little clerk doesn't survive two hours in freezing mountain subsoil,” I continued, leaning closer to the glass.
“You thought you had erased me completely.”
“You thought you could bury my baby, steal my phone, and walk away scot-free.”
“And what makes you think I didn't prepare for your little offshore trust before I ever walked into your boardroom?”
Richard’s eyes narrowed sharply.
“What are you talking about?”
“While you were rotting in this concrete box, my cyber-forensics team didn't just audit your corporate accounts,” I smiled softly.
“We traced the Blackwood Trust straight to a shell company registered under Julian Myers’ offshore cousin in the Cayman Islands.”
“And guess what, Richard?”
“Julian Myers signed a full cooperation agreement three months ago in exchange for witness protection.”
“He handed over the master decryption keys, the Swiss bank routing numbers, and the original paper certificates for the Blackwood Trust directly to the Department of Justice.”
Richard’s face drained of what little color it had left.
The receiver slipped slightly from his trembling, shackled fingers, clattering against the metal counter.
“No,” Richard choked out, pressing his face against the glass.
“That’s impossible... Myers wouldn't dare—”
“Myers cared more about saving his own skin than protecting your hollow legacy,” I interrupted, standing up smoothly and adjusting my jacket cuffs.
“The Blackwood Trust was seized by federal authorities at 8:00 AM this morning.”
“Your offshore patents now belong entirely to Apex-Sterling.”
“You don't have leverage, Richard.”
“You don't have assets.”
“You don't even have a family left to visit you on holidays.”
“You are completely, utterly, and permanently finished.”
Richard began pounding his fists against the ballistic glass, screaming incoherent curses that were entirely muted by the heavy soundproofing.
The two federal guards stepped forward, instantly pinning his shoulders back and dragging him away from the visitation window toward the solitary confinement block.
I turned my back on the booth, walked out the heavy steel doors, and stepped into the warm morning air.
May you like
The sun felt incredible against my face.
The ghost of Black Ridge was finally, forever, laid to rest.
