Chapter 7 - The Price of Treason
The muffled crack of the suppressed gunshot was swallowed instantly by the heavy rain against the glass.
The nine-millimeter hollow-point bullet shattered the front edge of the mahogany desk and ripped directly through Arthur’s right kneecap.
Arthur did not scream immediately; shock locked the air in his throat for two whole seconds.
Then his body jerked violently backward out of the chair, his hands clutching his ruined joint as blood soaked his trousers.
A high-pitched, ragged screech tore out of his mouth, bouncing off the soundproof walls of my private study.
“Vincent! You psychotic bastard!” he shrieked, writhing on the Persian carpet, tears instantly streaking his pale face.
“You just blinded your own daughter! You just killed her!”
I stood up slowly, walked around the desk, and planted my heavy boot directly onto his left wrist, pinning it to the floor.
Marcus stepped through the study door without being summoned, holding a roll of black industrial duct tape and a combat tourniquet.
“Apply the tourniquet high on the thigh, Marcus,” I commanded, keeping my pistol pointed at Arthur’s forehead.
“We don't want him bleeding out before he opens the hangar vault for us.”
Marcus knelt down with mechanical efficiency, wrapping the nylon strap around Arthur’s upper leg and cranking the plastic windlass until the arterial spurting stopped.
Arthur’s face turned an ashen shade of grey, his breathing coming in frantic, hyperventilating gasps.
“You... you can’t get into that hangar,” Arthur wheezed, his teeth chattering uncontrollably from agonizing pain and shock.
“There are four private security contractors stationed inside the perimeter.”
“They have standing orders from Vanguard... if I don’t check in via encrypted radio every two hours, they burn the facility.”
I knelt down beside his face, leaning in until he could smell the gun smoke lingering on my jacket.
“Who owns the private security firm guarding that hangar, Arthur?” I asked in a whisper.
Arthur’s bloodshot eyes blinked weakly through his tears.
“Apex Tactical... out of Charlotte...”
“I bought Apex Tactical five years ago through a blind trust in Delaware, Arthur,” I said softly.
“You hired my own contract killers to guard your stolen property because you thought you were using a clean corporate contractor.”
The realization hit Arthur harder than the bullet had.
His jaw hung open, a string of bloody saliva trailing onto the carpet.
“The only thing stopping me from taking that hangar right now is the biometric vault sequence,” I continued, tapping the barrel of the Glock against his temple.
“And since the vault requires an iris scan and a numeric passcode, you are going to ride in the back of my Suburban to Fulton County Airport.”
“If Lila’s antidote is compromised by so much as a broken seal, I will drop you into the carriage house incinerator feet first while Marcus times how long your heart keeps beating.”
Arthur began sobbing, the cold, sophisticated corporate titan reduced to a broken animal on the rug.
“The code... the code is nine-four-two-seven-eight-one...” he stammered, clutching my pant leg with his trembling free hand.
“The serum is in refrigerated locker Delta-Four... labeled Compound B-Sixteen.”
“Don’t take me to the airport, Vincent... please... I’m losing too much blood...”
“Marcus, bandage his leg enough to keep him conscious,” I ordered, stepping back from his grasp.
“Drag him down to the garage and throw him into the trunk of the armored Suburban.”
“What about the wife in the wine cellar, boss?” Marcus asked, hauling Arthur up by his suit collar like an empty sack of flour.
“Leave Elena down there,” I said, looking out into the pitch-black rainy courtyard.
“Let her sit in the dark and wonder which one of her partners betrayed her first.”
I picked up the secure satellite phone again and dialed the commander of Apex Tactical.
“Captain Reyes,” a gruff voice answered within two rings.
“This is Moretti,” I said.
“Lock down Fulton County Hangar Seven immediately.”
“Disarm the four men Arthur Vance placed on site and secure the perimeter.”
“If anyone approaches with an incendiary device or tries to wipe the server racks, shoot them on sight.”
“Understood, Mr. Moretti. Hangar Seven is locked down.”
I severed the call, picked up my coat, and walked down the back hallway toward the private elevator.
Before heading to the garage, I stepped softly into the third-floor west suite.
Lila was lying on the king-sized bed, looking impossibly small against the white linen sheets.
Her breathing was shallow, her tiny eyelids fluttering in restless, nightmare-filled sleep.
I sat on the edge of the mattress and brushed a damp lock of dark hair away from her forehead.
Her skin felt clammy, cold, poisoned from the inside out by the woman she called mother.
“Hold on for just two more hours, sweetheart,” I whispered, kissing her pale temple.
“Daddy is bringing your light back.”
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I turned around, walked out into the stormy night, and climbed into the front seat of the Suburban.
The hunt for the antidote was almost over, but the reckoning for everyone who touched my daughter was just beginning.
