Chapter 27 - The Hostile Extraction
Within seven minutes of my command, the world economy shuddered.
Through the ballroom doors, I heard the sudden cacophony of emergency ringtones erupting simultaneously across sixty reporters’ phones and financial terminals. The trading screens flanking the podium flashed violent red.
*BREAKING: VANCE GLOBAL COMMERCE CHANNELS FROZEN WORLDWIDE.*
*AUTOMATED CONTAINERS LOCKED AT ROTTERDAM AND SHANGHAI.*
*SYSTEM-WIDE PROTOCOL LOCKOUT: ROOT KEY AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED.*
On stage, Alexander’s polished facade cracked. His jaw tightened into a granite slab as his private security chief rushed the stage, whispering urgently into his ear. Behind him, Ricardo looked at his phone, his face draining of all color until he looked like a walking corpse. Camilla clutched Alexander’s sleeve, her haughty smirk dissolving into naked panic.
I didn't run. I walked down the grand marble staircase into the main lobby, moving with the slow, deliberate grace of an executioner entering the courtyard.
"Victoria!" a voice barked.
I stopped. Standing near the grand archway were four of my father’s elite private security operatives. Their hands were tucked inside their tailored suits, their eyes locked on me with lethal intent.
"Mr. Vance requested an immediate private audience in the penthouse suite," the lead contractor said, his German accent clipped and devoid of warmth. "Please do not make a scene."
"I don't make scenes, Herr Weber," I said, recognizing the man who had overseen my father’s compound security when I was a teenager. "I make precedents."
I raised my hand, clicking a small black fob concealed between my fingers.
The heavy oak doors of the lobby burst inward. Twelve heavily armed Swiss Federal Police officers, flanked by agents from the Federal Department of Justice, swarmed the room, their submachine guns raised, their badges gleaming under the crystal chandeliers.
"Federal police! Drop your weapons! Hands where we can see them!"
Herr Weber froze, his hand slowly easing away from his jacket.
"You called the authorities?" Weber sneered softly. "Your father owns the cantonal police."
"The cantonal police, yes," I said, stepping past him as two federal agents pinned his arms behind his back. "The Federal Tax Administration and the International Maritime Crime Division, however, are another matter entirely. It turns out, faking your death to evade twenty-two billion dollars in estate taxes and international maritime tariffs is a non-bailable offense under Swiss federal law."
I adjusted my diamond cuffs, looking up toward the mezzanine where my father stood, staring down at me through the balustrade.
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His eyes were burning with a terrifying, proud fury. He didn't look defeated; he looked like a general whose favorite student had just successfully countered his primary offensive.
***
