Chapter 8 - The Shadow of Daniel’s Treason
We descended the winding stone staircase into the subterranean vaults beneath Pinehaven Manor—a fortified bunker complex constructed during the Cold War, featuring two-foot-thick reinforced concrete walls and heavy steel blast doors.
Sitting strapped to a steel chair beneath a single, swinging halogen bulb was Marcus Reeves.
His broken nose had been roughly bandaged by our medical team, his tailored suit filthy, his silver hair matted with grime. When the heavy iron door clanged shut behind us, he slowly lifted his head, his hollow, bloodshot eyes glaring at us through the harsh light.
“What do you want, Mercer?” Marcus rasped, coughing weakly. “You have the deeds. You have the charter. You have my son. Just call the federal marshals and be done with it.”
Nathaniel pulled up a wooden chair, turned it backward, and sat down less than three paces from the broken patriarch.
“I don't just want the federal indictments, Marcus,” Nathaniel said, his voice quiet, melodic, and terrifyingly calm. “I want the name of the man who placed the explosive charge inside Arthur Blackridge’s private Cessna twenty-two years ago.”
Marcus froze.
The defiant sneer vanished from his lips, replaced by a sudden, absolute terror that made his entire frame begin to tremble.
“It... it was an engine failure,” Marcus stammered, his eyes darting frantically toward the concrete corners of the room. “The National Transportation Safety Board concluded there was icing on the carburetor—”
“The NTSB investigator was paid four hundred thousand dollars through a shell account in the Bahamas registered to your personal tax ID, Marcus,” Nathaniel interrupted smoothly, tossing a printout of bank wire transfers onto Marcus’s lap.
Nathaniel leaned forward, resting his forearms on the back of his chair.
“Arthur Blackridge was a licensed master pilot with over ten thousand flight hours. He knew how to handle carburetor icing in a winter squall. Tell me who built the bomb, Marcus. Or I will let Matteo take your fingers with an industrial bolt cutter.”
Marcus swallowed hard, his throat working dryly as tears of pure, unadulterated fear spilled down his weathered cheeks.
“It wasn't me!” Marcus wept, shaking his head frantically. “I only handled the financial restructuring! The hit was organized by Baron Victor Cross—Madeline’s father!”
I stepped forward into the circle of light, my hands clenching into fists at my sides. “Victor Cross murdered my father?”
Marcus looked up at me, his lip quivering. “Victor controlled the private security firm that managed the Duluth municipal airfield in 2002. He had his private mechanic, Dante Russo, bypass the auxiliary fuel cutoff valve and plant an altitude-sensitive C4 charge behind the rear firewall. Victor wanted the northern shipping lanes. He told me that if Arthur died, we could split the timber reserves fifty-fifty and rule the entire Great Lakes basin together.”
The horror of the revelation hung in the cold cellar air like a toxic mist.
The Cross family hadn't just tried to poison me with cyanide wine that afternoon. They had orchestrated the murder of my father twenty-two years ago to steal his empire.
Nathaniel stood up slowly, towering over Marcus like an angel of death.
“Where is Victor Cross right now, Marcus?” Nathaniel asked, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper.
“He... he fled to his private hunting lodge at the River Sawmill outside Grand Marais,” Marcus sobbed. “He mobilized thirty private security contractors from his Canadian subsidiary. He’s preparing to cross the border into Ontario by boat before sunrise.”
Nathaniel turned to Matteo, who stood waiting at the threshold of the cellar.
May you like
“Matteo. Mobilize Teams Alpha and Bravo. Arm the heavy tactical vehicles. We ride for the River Sawmill.”
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