Chapter 6 - The Return of the Tycoon
The heavy oak door of the study swung inward, hitting the doorstop with a muffled *thud*.
Victoria stepped into the darkness, holding her iPhone in front of her with the flashlight turned on. The harsh white beam swept across the room—cutting over the expansive mahogany desk, the empty leather executive chairs, the glass liquor decanters, and finally resting on the massive wall of built-in bookshelves.
The room was completely still.
Victoria frowned, her eyes narrowing as she swept the beam across the carpet. She took three cautious steps into the room, her silk robe billowing around her calves.
"Teresa?" she called out again, her voice sharp with suspicion.
Behind the false bookcase, Teresa stood pressed against the cold metal casing of the server rack, barely daring to draw oxygen into her lungs. The thumb drive was clutched in her fist, its sharp edges digging painfully into her palm. She could hear the faint rustle of Victoria’s robe just inches away, separated only by a layer of wood and leather-bound encyclopedias.
Victoria took another step closer to the shelf. Her hand reached out. Her fingers hovered barely an inch from the brass release latch.
Suddenly, a loud, thunderous roar shattered the silence of the night, rattling the panoramic glass windows of the study.
Victoria jumped, pulling her hand back in shock.
She spun around toward the window. Out across the sweeping, manicured lawn of the estate, two blinding beams of halogen light swept across the wet driveway. The rhythmic, deafening thrum of twin turboshaft rotors cut through the rain.
A black Sikorsky S-76 executive helicopter was descending directly toward the estate’s private helipad, its downdraft flattening the prize-winning rose bushes and sending sheets of rainwater cascading off the stone terraces.
Victoria gasped, dropping her phone onto the plush rug.
"Marcus?" she whispered in disbelief, her eyes widening. "He’s not supposed to be back until Friday..."
Panic, sudden and electric, flared in Victoria’s eyes. She scrambled to pick up her phone, quickly smoothed her disheveled blonde hair in the reflection of the glass, and rushed out of the study, the sharp slap of her bare feet echoing down the marble staircase as she hurried toward the front foyer.
The moment the study door swung shut, Teresa stepped out from behind the bookshelf.
She didn't waste a second. She slipped the USB drive into her apron pocket alongside her phone, pulled the bookshelf shut until the latch clicked securely, and ran toward the service stairs.
Outside, the helicopter touched down on the concrete pad with a heavy mechanical settle.
Before the rotor blades had even begun their slow spin-down, the main cabin door was thrown violently open.
Marcus Oleso stepped down onto the tarmac.
He wore no coat against the freezing Seattle downpour. The rain instantly soaked through his white shirt, plastering the fabric to his muscular frame, but he didn't seem to notice the cold. His face was a mask of dark, terrifying thunder. His jaw was clenched so hard the tendons stood out like cables in his neck.
Walking beside him were two private security contractors in dark suits, their faces grim, their hands resting near their tactical communication rigs.
Marcus crossed the lawn with long, predatory strides, completely ignoring the gravel that tore at his dress shoes.
He didn't use his key. He hit the massive double front doors with the flat of his palm, shoving them open with such force that they slammed against the interior stone walls, echoing through the cavernous foyer like a gunshot.
Victoria was standing halfway down the sweeping spiral staircase, wrapped in her pristine silk robe, her hands clasped delicately over her chest in an exquisite portrait of surprise and devoted affection.
"Marcus, darling!" Victoria cried out, rushing down the remaining steps with a bright, relieved smile, opening her arms toward him. "You’re home early! My god, you’re soaking wet! What happened? Was there a problem in Tokyo? You should have called, I would have had the chef prepare—"
Marcus didn't stop. He didn't slow down.
As Victoria reached the bottom of the stairs and reached out to wrap her arms around his wet neck, Marcus brought his hand up and gripped her by the forearm with the force of an iron vise.
Victoria gasped, the smile vanishing from her face as pain shot through her wrist. "Marcus! What are you doing? You’re hurting me!"
Marcus pulled her toward him until their faces were barely three inches apart. His eyes were wild, bloodshot, and filled with a cold, merciless hatred that made the blood instantly drain from Victoria’s face.
"Where is she?" Marcus growled. The sound wasn't human. It was the low, guttural vibration of an apex predator whose den had been violated.
"W-what?" Victoria stammered, her voice squeaking in genuine panic. "Where is who? Marcus, let go of me! Have you lost your mind?"
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"My daughter, Victoria," Marcus said, his voice dropping into a lethal, terrifying whisper that echoed off the high ceiling. "Where. Is. My. Daughter?"
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