Chapter 16
The rain had cleared by mid-afternoon, leaving the city streets glistening under a pale, watery autumn sun. Inside the penthouse suite of the Sinclair Tower—a fifty-story monolith of glass and steel dominating the financial district—the atmosphere was far from triumphant.
Richard Sinclair stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of his private office, staring down at the swarm of federal vehicles parked outside the entrance below. His custom Italian suit jacket was discarded on the leather sofa, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his tie pulled loose. On the mahogany desk behind him, his encrypted satellite phone buzzed continuously with panicked calls from board members, international creditors, and offshore asset managers whose accounts had just been frozen by federal order.
The private elevator chime pinged softly. The heavy mahogany doors slid open, and Viktor Vance—no relation to Detective Marcus Vance, but Richard’s head of security and clandestine operations—stepped out into the office. Viktor was a massive man with a shaved head, cold gray eyes, and a jagged scar running from his right ear down into the collar of his black turtleneck.
"The federal marshals have cordoned off the lower three floors," Viktor reported, his voice low and gravelly as he crossed the Persian rug toward the desk. "Our corporate lawyers tried to file an emergency injunction with Judge Hawthorne, but the application was denied within ten minutes. Someone inside the federal prosecutor's office has direct oversight on every account we hold."
Richard didn't turn around. He took a slow sip of neat scotch from a crystal tumbler, his knuckles whitening around the glass. "It's Caroline. She didn't just come back to crash a wedding; she came back with a federal task force in her back pocket."
"She's a liability," Viktor said bluntly, his hand resting casually near the concealed holster beneath his left armpit. "A liability that can be managed. The same way we managed the east wing of the Mercer estate three years ago when her father's financial irregularities started leaking to the SEC."
Richard turned his head slowly, his eyes narrowing as he looked at his head of security. "That was supposed to be a warning fire, Viktor. Not a homicide."
"It was whatever was necessary to keep the Mercer holdings solvent enough for our acquisition," Viktor replied without flinching. "And now she's walking around downtown with a flash drive that contains every ledger entry connecting Sinclair Industries to the initial wire transfers. If she takes that drive to the grand jury on Monday morning, we're all looking at federal penitentiary time."
Richard set his crystal glass down on the mahogany desk with a sharp clink. He walked over to the executive leather chair and sat down, lacing his fingers together as he stared coldly at his security chief. "The grand jury doesn't convene until Monday. That gives us forty-eight hours."
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"What do you want me to do?" Viktor asked, a dark, dangerous smile touching his lips.
"Find her," Richard instructed softly, his voice devoid of any human emotion. "Bring her here—voluntarily or otherwise. And make sure she brings that flash drive with her. Once we have the encryption keys, we'll arrange for her to have another unfortunate accident. Only this time, there won't be any hospital to revive her."
