Chapter 46 - The Face of the Trustee
Every weapon in the basement snapped toward me instantly. Red laser sighting dots painted my chest, my throat, and my forehead.
Behind me, Marcus Vance stepped into the open with an assault rifle, covering the mercenaries, while David rushed forward toward his wife.
"Chloe!" David shouted.
"David!" she screamed, lunging forward, but one of the guards grabbed her by her collar, pressing the cold barrel of a sidearm to her temple.
"Stand down, everyone," Julian Sterling commanded smoothly, raising one gloved hand. He showed no fear, only an amused, calculating curiosity as he looked at me. "Mrs. Miller. You made remarkable time. Supersonic transport via the Swiss corridor. Arthur Vance truly underestimated you."
"Arthur was an arrogant worm," I replied, never lowering my revolver from Sterling's forehead. "And you are a thief in an expensive suit. Tell your men to release Chloe, or nobody leaves this basement alive."
"A dramatic ultimatum, Evelyn," Sterling said, smiling thinly. "Look at your chest. You have three high-caliber rifles targeted on your center mass. If you pull that trigger, you die. Your son dies. Your daughter-in-law dies. And the unborn child dies with her."
"You forgot one detail, Sterling," I said, tilting my head toward the floor beneath our feet. "You think you’re standing on ordinary concrete. You think that vault hatch is just a safe."
I reached into my pocket with my left hand and pulled out the Saint Jude Master Ledger. The heavy black volume, bound in worn calfskin with its brass clasps, caught the harsh glare of the halogen work lights.
Sterling’s eyes dilated. The composed, aristocratic veneer cracked, revealing a ravenous, desperate hunger. "The physical ledger. The original analog signatures."
"Every bribe your consortium paid to European chancellors, every offshore asset stolen through predatory foreclosures across North America—it's all indexed right here," I said, holding the book loosely over the open drop-shaft of the ancient sump pump trench beside me. "One drop into the flooded sump well, and sixty years of water-soluble cryptographic ink turns into black sludge."
"You wouldn't dare," Sterling hissed, his voice finally losing its cultured poise. "Without those keys, you can never prove your innocence against Arthur's fraud charges!"
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"My innocence was never on trial, Mr. Sterling," I said coldly. "My sovereignty was. And this hearth belongs to me."
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