Chapter 8 - THE GHOST OF MARCUS VANCE
The security footage arrived on the library monitor twenty minutes later.
A black sedan pulled up to the estate gates at 11:15 AM.
The driver was wearing a chauffeur's cap pulled low over his eyes.
As he placed the box on the console, the dashboard camera caught his profile for a fraction of a second.
A jagged scar running from his left ear down into his collar.
Marcus's right-hand man, Viktor Vance.
A former enforcer who had spent five years in federal prison before Marcus bought his early release.
He's close, Julian said, his fingers resting on the edge of the desk.
Marcus is operating out of the old dry-dock warehouses down on Pier 42.
The same piers where my father's cargo ships used to dock before the hostile takeover.
I walked over to the window, watching the river traffic crawl past in the grey autumn rain.
And Clarissa?
She's locked down there with him, Julian replied.
A pawn in a war she thought she was leading.
If Marcus has her, she'll talk, I said.
She knows everything about this house.
She knows the security codes, the vault locations, the layout of the west wing.
Let her talk, Julian said, a cold smile touching his lips.
Everything she knows is outdated.
We changed the codes at midnight.
He walked over to the wall behind his desk, reached out, and pressed a hidden panel in the mahogany wainscoting.
A section of the bookshelf slid forward with a heavy, mechanical hum.
Inside was a secure armory.
Rows of matte-black tactical gear, encrypted communication devices, and customized sidearms rested in molded foam slots.
This isn't a corporate takeover anymore, Julian said, lifting a heavy-duty tactical vest and sliding it over his broad shoulders.
This is war.
I looked at the weapons.
Then I looked down at my hands.
At the simple silver ring I wore on my left thumb.
I'm coming with you, I said.
Julian stopped buttoning his tactical jacket.
Nadia, no. Marcus's men are animals.
That's why I'm coming, I countered, stepping directly into his space.
For seven years, I watched them from the kitchen.
I listened to them laugh about ruined lives over champagne in the drawing room.
I know every exit in those warehouses.
I cleaned them.
Julian stared at me for a long, silent beat.
The dark heat in his eyes flared, not with anger, but with absolute, terrifying respect.
He reached into the armory, pulled out a compact, matte-black sidearm, and checked the magazine before handing it to me hilt-first.
Stay behind me, he said.
If anyone moves toward you, you don't hesitate.
I took the weapon.
May you like
Its weight felt cold and reassuring against my palm.
Let's go find Clarissa, I said.
