Chapter 8 - The Fall of the Empire
The blinding white light of three tactical flash-grenades detonated inside the executive lounge, filling the room with a deafening CRACK-CRACK-CRACK that instantly disoriented the four Ironclad mercenaries.
Through the shattered glass wall, twelve dark figures suspended on tactical rappelling lines swung into the room from the roof above.
"FEDERAL AGENTS! DROP YOUR WEAPONS! ON THE GROUND NOW!"
It wasn't Bastion’s mob enforcers.
It was the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team, acting on the automated emergency fraud alert that Beatrice had routed directly to the Federal Reserve twenty minutes earlier.
The four mercenaries were slammed onto the marble floor before they could fire a single round, their weapons kicked across the room, their hands bound in heavy plastic zip-ties.
Dominic Vane stumbled backward against the quartz bar, knocking over his glass of Scotch, his eyes wild with terror as three laser sights locked onto his chest.
"DON'T MOVE! HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!" a federal agent roared.
Dominic slowly raised his hands, his face completely drained of color, his body shaking violently as an agent tackled him to his knees, forcing his head down against the cold quartz floor.
Bastion Mercer did not move.
He stood at the top of the stairs, his heavy black handgun already holstered beneath his jacket, his hands resting calmly in his pockets as a senior FBI Special Agent stepped through the shattered glass window.
The agent was a broad-shouldered man in his late fifties wearing a dark tactical jacket with FBI printed in bold gold letters across his back.
His name was Agent Marcus Vance.
Agent Vance looked at the four bound mercenaries, then at Dominic Vane crying on the floor, and finally walked up the carpeted stairs toward Bastion and Beatrice.
"Bastion," Vance said, his tone dry, tired, but remarkably lacking in hostility. "Every time I get called out to a high-rise at four in the morning, your name is on the building."
"Agent Vance," Bastion replied calmly, his voice smooth and unbothered. "You're ten minutes late. My accountant did all your work for you."
Vance looked at Beatrice Abbott.
He looked at her dusty burgundy blazer, her loose dark hair, her vintage spectacles, and the tactical laptop holding the entire encrypted ledger of the Acheron trust.
"Miss Abbott?" Vance asked, raising an eyebrow in deep professional respect. "I just received a call from the Assistant Director in Washington. She said a forensic auditor in New York just handed us the largest offshore corporate fraud bust in the history of the Maritime Commerce Commission."
"The files are completely uncorrupted, Agent Vance," Beatrice said, handing him an encrypted flash drive she had pulled from her laptop. "It contains sixteen hundred cross-referenced transactions, the cloned MAC address signatures, and the complete paper trail connecting Dominic Vane to eighteen dock union kickback schemes across Jersey."
Vance took the drive, letting out a long, low whistle.
"Jesus," Vance murmured. "Our team spent three years trying to crack Vane's offshore network."
He looked at Dominic being dragged out of the lounge by two federal agents, then turned back to Beatrice.
"Miss Abbott," Vance said warmly, extending his hand. "The Department of Justice owes you a massive debt. When this trial is over, I'm personally writing a letter to your firm's managing partners."
"Don't bother," Beatrice said smoothly, taking his hand with a firm, confident grip. "I resigned from Sterling, Vance & Cole twenty minutes ago."
Bastion turned his head slowly, his silver eyes fixing onto her face with sudden, intense interest.
May you like
"Did you?" Bastion asked softly.
"I did," Beatrice said, looking him dead in the eye. "My billable rate just went up."
