Chapter 6 - The Counterstrike
At 2:00 AM, the executive boardroom on the fortieth floor of the Hawthorne Biotech Tower was blazing with light.
Below, the city of Seattle slept beneath a blanket of fog, the Space Needle piercing the mist like a glowing needle. Inside the boardroom, twelve corporate attorneys, four forensic accountants, and the chief of Grant’s private security detail sat surrounded by cardboard boxes, scanned PDFs, and glowing monitors.
Grant stood at the floor-to-ceiling glass, a cup of black coffee cooling in his hand. He had showered and changed into a clean dark suit, but he hadn't slept. His eyes were cold, sharp, and entirely focused.
Behind him, Dr. Mercer stepped through the double doors, still wearing his surgical scrubs.
"She’s stabilized," Mercer said, pulling off his scrub cap. "We started high-flow oxygen and the targeted monoclonal antibody cocktail. The consolidation is already beginning to clear. Her fever broke twenty minutes ago."
Grant let out a breath he felt he had been holding for seven years. "And Sky?"
"Asleep in the executive suite on the ninth floor. Nova refused to leave her. Juny put two cots in the private recovery lounge. They’re dead to the world, holding onto that copper pipe thing like it’s the Holy Grail."
"Thank you, Robert."
Grant turned back to the long mahogany table. At the center sat Arthur Vance-Croft, Hawthorne Biotech's chief legal counsel, a veteran of thirty corporate proxy wars who looked like he had just seen a ghost.
"It’s all here, Grant," Vance-Croft said, tapping the leather-bound logbook open before him. "The chain of custody is unbroken. Clara Vance kept the physical digital backups on cold-storage drives with hardware time-stamps. Sterling didn't just commit patent fraud. He committed federal wire fraud, witness intimidation, perjury before the federal trade commission, and criminal tampering with clinical trial data."
"What’s the valuation of the municipal contract?" Grant asked.
"One point eight billion dollars over ten years," the attorney replied. "The city council votes at 10:00 AM tomorrow at the Municipal Tower. If Sterling gets the contract, his firm merges with the Atlantic Pharmaceutical conglomerate, and they become too large to prosecute without a decade of federal litigation."
"And the gala?"
"The Mayor’s Annual Children’s Health Gala starts at seven tomorrow evening at the Westin Grand Ballroom," Vance-Croft said. "Victor is the guest of honor. He’s scheduled to receive the Philanthropist of the Year award from the regional hospital association. Every city council member, every judge, and every major shareholder in the state will be in that room."
Grant set his coffee cup down on the table with a soft, final *click*.
"He wanted an audience," Grant said. "Let’s give him one."
"Grant," Vance-Croft warned, leaning forward. "Victor has been moving all night. The smear campaign hit the morning news blogs two hours ago. Look at this."
He turned a tablet toward Grant.
The headline on the local digital daily screamed: *DESPERATION AT THE MANSION: BILLIONAIRE HAWTHORNE PAYS STREET URCHINS TO ATTEND DISABLED DAUGHTER’S BIRTHDAY AFTER ELITE CLASS REJECTS FAMILY.*
Beneath it was a grainy, high-resolution photo taken from the Lincoln Navigator—the moment Sky had first stepped through the gate, holding her brown paper bag, her scuffed shoes and frayed cuffs displayed under a harsh digital zoom. The article quoted an "anonymous family friend" who claimed Grant’s erratic behavior was a clear sign that Hawthorne Biotech was collapsing from within and that Grant was unfit to manage the city's critical public health initiative.
"He thinks he won," Grant murmured.
"The board members are panicking," Vance-Croft said. "Three of them called me between midnight and one, asking if we should accept Victor’s buyout offer before the stock tanks at the opening bell."
"Tell them to wait for the gala," Grant said.
"Grant, if you walk into that ballroom with an axe, they will close ranks around him. Those people went to Choate and Princeton together. They played squash together this morning. You’re the outsider who built an empire in a garage. They will protect their own."
Grant looked down at the photograph of Sky at his gate.
He saw the fear in her eyes, the courage in her spine, and the brown paper bag containing the light of the stars.
"They aren't protecting their own, Arthur," Grant said quietly. "They're protecting their money. And by tomorrow night, Victor Sterling won't have a single dollar left that doesn't belong to the federal government."
He picked up his phone and dialed a direct extension.
"Governor’s mansion," a voice answered on the third ring.
May you like
"Put him on," Grant said. "Tell him Grant Hawthorne is holding the original data logs for the 2018 oncology initiative, and we need to discuss an executive subpoena before breakfast."
***
