Chapter 4 - The Scent of Treason
By noon, the federal seizure was in full swing.
Dozens of agents wearing navy-blue jackets with yellow federal lettering swarmed the eighty-story Vance Tower. Hard drives were being mirrored, filing cabinets tagged, and corporate servers unplugged under the terrified eyes of hundreds of office workers who had spent decades bowing to the Vance name.
I stood on the mezzanine balcony, looking down at the marble atrium.
"They're moving faster than expected," Marcus said, walking up beside me with two paper cups of black coffee. He handed me one. "The Department of Justice just froze Arthur’s primary liquidity funds in Switzerland and the Caymans. Julian's passport has been flagged. He won't be boarding his private jet to Monaco."
"It's not enough," I said, taking a sip of the bitter roast. "Freezing their money just slows them down. Arthur has slush funds hidden in real estate developments across Latin America and shell corporations registered under Victoria’s boutique fashion houses. He needs to bleed until he has nothing left to offer the prosecutors."
"You're cold, Lauren," Marcus noted quietly, though there was nothing but deep respect in his eyes. "Most people would have broken down after what happened at that gala."
"I broke six years ago, Marcus," I replied. "When my mother was dying of leukemia in that clinic in Zurich, Arthur withheld her treatment funds until she agreed to sign over her inherited voting shares in Vance Maritime. When she died, he buried her in an unmarked plot, called me a failure, and told me I was dead to the family."
I looked down at my knuckles, still scarred from the heat of the bulkhead.
"The Navy gave me a family that bled for each other. Arthur Vance only bleeds people dry. He thinks this is a dispute over money. He doesn't realize this is an extraction operation. And the target is his entire life."
Before Marcus could respond, my encrypted tactical phone vibrated against my chest.
I pulled it out and tapped the screen. It was an unauthorized incoming line originating from an unregistered Burner SIM within the tri-state area.
I connected the call and put it to my ear. "Commander Vance."
"Lauren."
It was Victoria. Her voice lacked the mocking, venomous lilt from the gala. It was frayed, trembling on the edge of hysteria.
"Victoria," I answered flatly. "You're violating federal communications protocols. Every second this line is open, NCIS is triangulating your cell tower."
"You have to stop this!" she sobbed into the receiver. "They're at my apartment, Lauren! Federal marshals are carrying out my art collection! They’re seizing my Birkin bags, my jewelry, my clothes! The building super locked me out of the elevator! I’m standing on Park Avenue in the rain and people are filming me!"
"Then you should find an umbrella," I said coldly.
"We're your family!" she screamed, the desperation turning into shrill rage. "How can you do this to us over some ancient grudge? You think you're a saint because you wore a uniform? You ran away because you couldn't hack it in high society! You were always the weak one! Always the charity case!"
"If I was the weak one, Victoria," I said quietly, "why are you the one crying in the rain while I'm standing in your father's office?"
There was a choked silence on the other end.
"I gave you a choice six years ago," I reminded her. "When Arthur kicked me out, I came to your penthouse. I begged you for five hundred dollars so I could pay rent on a room in Queens. Do you remember what you did?"
Victoria breathed heavily, unable to speak.
"You poured a glass of vintage champagne over my head, laughed, and told me that beggars shouldn't wear off-the-rack coats. Now look at you. Begging me through a burner phone while the world watches you lose everything."
"Lauren, please—"
"I told you at the gala, Victoria. Before this night is over, I will dismantle this empire piece by piece. You were just the first piece."
I hung up, handed the phone to Marcus, and adjusted my collar.
May you like
"Tell the raid team to hit the secondary warehouse in Elizabeth, New Jersey," I commanded. "Julian’s illicit defense cargo is waiting to be loaded onto a Panamanian freighter. Let's make sure my dear brother gets front-row seats to his own trial."
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