Chapter 7 - Martha's Awakening
We didn't take my Audi.
Knowing the Sterling network would have the license plate flagged by city traffic cameras within minutes, I had Elena arrange a non-descript medical transport van, driven by an off-duty paramedic who asked zero questions in exchange for five thousand dollars in crisp cash.
As the van rumbled through the snow-choked streets of Midtown, Martha sat upright on the bench, wrapped in an oversized dark wool coat, a silk scarf covering the bandages on her head, dark sunglasses hiding her ruined eye.
She looked transformed. The trembling, submissive ghost who had cowered under Robert’s fists for thirty years was gone. In her place sat a woman whose survival instincts had finally ignited.
"He keeps a safe in his executive office," Martha said suddenly, her voice cutting through the hum of the van’s heater.
I looked up from my tablet. "What kind of safe?"
"A floor-mounted, biometric vault behind the portrait of his father," she said, her hands tightly clasping her handbag. "The security codes change weekly, but he uses a mechanical master key as a bypass in case of system failure. He keeps it in his pocket watch. The gold Patek Philippe he wears on his vest."
I arched an eyebrow. "What’s inside, Martha?"
"The real ledgers," she whispered. "The handwritten ones. Robert never trusted computers. He always said, 'Silicon leaves tracks; ink only burns.' In that vault are the private agreements he made with judges, senators, and the board members he blackmailed to take over Sterling Industries thirty years ago. If you want to destroy him completely, Sarah... you need that book."
"We don't need to break into the vault," I said, a dark smile playing at the corners of my lips. "Robert is going to bring it to us."
The van pulled up to the rear entrance of the Sterling Tower—a sixty-story monolith of black glass and steel that loomed over Manhattan like an arrogant tombstone.
It was 11:45 AM. Fifteen minutes until the noon press conference.
The lobby was already crawling with reporters, cameramen, and corporate executives. Robert hadn't canceled the event; instead, his PR machinery had spun it into an "Emergency Corporate Address Regarding Malicious Extortion and Defamation." He was going to use the live television broadcast to paint me as a disgruntled, thieving employee who had attacked his son in a drug-fueled rage.
He was doubling down. Just as I knew he would.
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"Stay close to me," I told Martha as we stepped out of the service elevator on the third-floor mezzanine, which overlooked the grand auditorium where the press conference was about to take place. "When the lights go down, the truth comes out."
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