Chapter 4 - The Threat in the Shadows
The corridor outside the law offices was carpeted in thick, sound-dampening wool, but Arthur’s footsteps sounded like heavy boots on concrete as he followed me toward the bank of private elevators.
"Clarissa! Stop right there!"
I stopped. I didn't turn around until I heard his breathing close behind me. When I spun on my heel, Arthur was less than three paces away. Julian lagged behind him, looking shell-shocked, clutching his phone like a life raft.
"You think you’ve won something today?" Arthur asked. His voice was dropped low now—the cold, menacing whisper he used behind closed boardroom doors when he was about to force an acquisition or bankrupt a competitor. "You think Marcus’s dementia is going to hand you a billion-dollar defense apparatus?"
"Grandfather wasn't demented, Dad," I said evenly. "He knew exactly what you were doing. And so do I."
"You know nothing!" Arthur snapped. "You know how to set a bone and write a prescription. You have no conception of the contracts we hold. Vance Global has three black-budget programs currently moving through the Pentagon’s authorization committee. If you interfere with those board seats—if you so much as sneeze during Monday's shareholder vote—I will destroy you."
Julian stepped up beside him, trying to find his footing. "Clarissa, listen to reason. We can settle this right now. Dad will authorize a cash payout. Fifty million dollars. Untaxed through an offshore vehicle. You can build whatever charity hospital you want in Africa. Just sign the proxy waiver."
I looked at Julian. I felt no anger toward him, only a profound, suffocating pity. He was twenty-eight years old, had never held a real job, had never stood in the mud, had never looked into the eyes of a dying soldier while knowing that nothing in modern medicine could save him. He was a creature born in glass and fed on paper money.
"Fifty million dollars?" I asked quietly.
Julian’s face brightened with desperate hope. "Yes! Fifty million. You can resign your commission tomorrow. You’ll be free."
"Keep your money, Julian," I said. "And tell your father that if he approaches me again outside the presence of the Judge Advocate General’s office, I’ll file an emergency federal injunction against his clearance status."
Arthur’s eyes narrowed into slits. "You arrogant little girl. You think that uniform protects you? I put Harrison Reed in his chair. I financed the campaigns of six members of the Armed Services Committee. I will have you court-martialed for conduct unbecoming before the ink on that probate filing is dry."
The elevator doors chimed and slid open.
I stepped inside, turned, and faced them.
"You didn't put Reed in his chair, Dad," I said quietly as the doors began to close. "Reed earned his chair the day he dragged three wounded Marines out of an ambush in Helmand Province. You bought yours. Let’s see which one holds up under fire."
The doors shut.
I took a deep, steadying breath as the car descended forty floors. My hands were perfectly still now. The uncertainty of the funeral was gone, replaced by the cool, analytical focus that took over whenever a trauma patient was wheeled through the bay doors of an emergency room.
I reached into my pocket, tapped the burner phone Reed had given me, and dialed the single contact programmed into its memory.
Reed picked up on the first ring. "Colonel?"
"I need an escort to Blackwood Ridge," I said. "Arthur is going to try to scrub the property."
"Already handled," Reed replied. "Two agents from the Defense Criminal Investigative Service are waiting at the main gate. Colonel... what did Marcus leave you?"
May you like
"I don't know yet," I said, feeling the weight of the silver Dunhill lighter against my ribs. "But whatever it is, Arthur is terrified of it."
***
