Chapter 36 - The Midnight Auctioneer's Ghost
Before Arthur could pull her into his arms, a high-frequency chirp broke the silence.
The sound came from the tactical radio Clara had stripped from one of the dead guards in the tunnel.
A voice cut through the static, crisp, aristocratic, and chillingly familiar.
"Protocol Omega is now active across all city sectors," the voice announced. "The assets have survived the ballroom collapse. Repeat, both targets are confirmed mobile."
Arthur went completely rigid.
He knew that voice.
He had listened to that voice deliver speeches at charity galas for thirty years.
It was his father's personal attorney and chief of security, Donald Vance.
"Vance is heading the kill team," Arthur whispered, grabbing the radio.
"Listen to the rest," Clara warned, holding his arm back.
"The Geneva buyer has rejected the secondary terms," Vance’s voice continued over the channel. "He demands delivery of the original genetic sequence within two hours, or the collateral in Manhattan will be liquidated."
"What collateral?" Arthur asked, looking at Clara.
Clara walked over to a bank of computer monitors mounted on the wall and began typing furiously with one hand.
The screens flickered, bypassing city surveillance networks until a live feed appeared.
Arthur felt the air leave his lungs entirely.
The camera showed a private penthouse suite forty stories above Central Park.
Sitting tied to a high-backed dining chair was Arthur’s younger sister, Beatrice.
Standing behind her with a silenced automatic pistol pressed against her temple was Donald Vance himself.
"They don't just want the drive," Clara whispered, staring at the screen with cold dread. "They’re using Beatrice to force your father's hand."
"No," Arthur said, shaking his head in horror. "My father would never allow Vance to touch Beatrice. Never."
"Your father isn't giving the orders anymore, Arthur," Clara said, pointing at the bottom corner of the live feed.
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Lying on the Persian rug beside the dining table was an older man in a tailored tuxedo, motionless in a pool of dark, spreading blood.
Marcus Sterling was already dead.
