Chapter 8 - The Traitor's Hand
The boardroom on the seventieth floor of the Bennett Tower was an amphitheater of raw power. Encased in floor-to-ceiling sheets of structural glass overlooking the predawn glow of Lake Michigan, twenty-four directors sat around a forty-foot table fashioned from a single slab of petrified African mahogany.
At the head of the table sat Arthur Sterling, the eighty-year-old chairman emeritus and long-time ally of Anthony’s late father. Beside him sat four corporate attorneys from Manhattan, their briefcases open, legal documents spread out before them like battle plans.
"It is seven-forty-five," Sterling announced, his gravelly voice echoing in the vast room. "Under Section 14-B of the corporate bylaws, in the confirmed absence or permanent incapacitation of Chief Executive Officer Anthony Bennett, all voting shares are transferred to the executive committee represented by Vice Chairman Julian Bennett and Director Victoria Bennett."
"The motion is seconded," one of the Manhattan lawyers said, sliding a thick leather-bound resolution toward Sterling. "We have certified affidavits from Northwestern Memorial Hospital confirming Anthony Bennett suffered catastrophic cardiac failure earlier this morning."
"Sign the document, Arthur," a smooth voice came from the double doors at the back of the room.
The heavy mahogany doors swung open.
Every director turned in their leather chairs. Several gasped. One spilled his coffee across the polished table.
Walking through the doors was Anthony Bennett.
He was flanked on his left by Marcus Reed, whose weapon was discreetly tucked beneath his jacket, and on his right by me—a flight attendant in a torn, blood-stained uniform who looked like she had just crawled out of an explosion.
Behind us, pushed forward by Vance, were Julian and Victoria Bennett. Julian was pale, clutching his bandaged shoulder, his clothes stained with soot and blood. Victoria’s wrists were bound tightly behind her back, her designer coat torn, her face twisted in a mask of impotent rage.
"Anthony?" Sterling stammered, standing up so fast his chair rolled backward into the glass wall. "We... we were told you were dead!"
"Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated, Arthur," Anthony said smoothly, walking down the length of the mahogany table with the measured, terrifying grace of a panther. "Usually, when someone tries to poison me at thirty-seven thousand feet, they at least have the courtesy to ensure the poison works."
He stopped at the head of the table, resting his palms against the cool wood.
"Julian... Victoria... take your seats," Anthony said politely. "This is, after all, your final board meeting."
Julian sank into a leather chair, trembling uncontrollably. Victoria remained standing, glaring at Anthony with undisguised hatred.
"This is an illegal detention!" Victoria shouted, addressing the stunned board members. "Anthony has suffered an acute psychotic break! He murdered his security personnel at the hospital and kidnapped Julian and me at gunpoint! Call the federal authorities!"
"The federal authorities are already in the elevator, Victoria," I spoke up, stepping forward and dropping the heavy pelican case onto the table with a loud *thud*.
The directors stared at me.
"Who the hell is this girl?" one of the Manhattan lawyers demanded.
"This 'girl,'" Anthony said, his voice dropping into a register that commanded absolute silence, "is Evelyn Carter. She is the flight attendant who caught the tampered seal on my medication case. She is the woman who identified the synthetic aconite that your medical team tried to inject into my femoral artery. And she is the individual currently holding the chain of custody for every piece of forensic evidence linking your offshore accounts to the assassination attempt."
I pulled the flash drive from my pocket and slammed it onto the mahogany table beside the vial of poisoned atropine.
"On this drive," I said, looking directly at the Manhattan lawyers, "are the encrypted bank transfers from Victoria Bennett's shell corporation in the Cayman Islands to an account registered to Ironclad Dynamics—transferred thirty-six hours before Flight 412 departed New York. The same firm that just tried to execute Mr. Bennett in his hospital bed."
The lawyers looked at the drive, then looked at Victoria. None of them moved a muscle.
"You're bluffing," Julian whispered, his voice cracking. "You don't have the decryption keys."
Anthony looked at his brother with infinite pity. "Julian, I wrote the encryption architecture for those accounts fifteen years ago. Did you really think you could use my own financial system to pay for my murder?"
The elevator chimes rang out in the lobby outside. The double doors burst open, and twelve FBI agents, weapons drawn, swept into the boardroom led by Special Agent-in-Charge Miller.
"Nobody move! Federal agents!" Miller bellowed.
Anthony didn't flinch. He slowly reached into his suit pocket, pulled out his gold fountain pen, and turned toward Chairman Sterling.
May you like
"Agent Miller," Anthony said calmly, without turning around. "You’re just in time to witness the execution of the European maritime acquisition. And immediately following that, you may arrest Julian Bennett and Victoria Bennett for attempted capital murder, corporate espionage, and high treason."
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