Chapter 8 - Desperate Measures
"That is impossible!" Arthur roared, slamming his bourbon glass onto the polished mahogany table with such force that it shattered, dark liquor and shards of crystal spraying across Sterling’s legal documents. "He couldn't do that! The board would never approve a unilateral transfer!"
"The board doesn't have a choice, Arthur," Sterling said, his voice shrinking into terrified compliance. "The General founded the company under a Department of Defense preferred-contractor charter in 1968. Under that charter, if the majority shareholder invokes national security concerns regarding corporate leadership, the controlling interest reverts to active-duty military kin holding top-secret clearance. It completely bypasses probate court."
The room erupted into absolute pandemonium. Junior board members began whispering frantically into their phones. Julian jumped up from his chair, knocking it backward onto the parquet floor.
"Fifty-one percent?!" Julian shrieked, his voice climbing an octave. "She owns the company?! She owns *everything*?!"
"She owns the controlling interest, yes," Sterling whispered, wiping sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. "Arthur... you are technically out of the CEO position as of twelve o'clock today."
Arthur turned slowly toward me. The veins in his neck were bulging against his collar, his face a terrifying shade of purple. The patronizing father, the polished corporate billionaire, the arrogant patriarch—all of it was gone. What remained was a cornered rat realizing the cage had just slammed shut.
"You knew," Arthur hissed, stepping toward me. "You and the old man planned this. You came here today to rob us."
"I didn't come to rob you, Arthur," I said, my voice steady, cold, and clear over the murmurs of the room. "Grandfather didn't leave me this company so I could be rich. He left it to me because Vance Industries is an arm of national defense, and you turned it into a black-market cartel."
"Shut your mouth!" Arthur screamed, losing all control. "You don't know what you're talking about!"
"Project Chimera," I said, speaking the words clearly into the silent room.
Arthur’s eyes dilated in sheer terror. Behind him, Julian froze, glancing nervously toward the French doors leading to the terrace.
"Twelve tons of military trauma coagulant smuggled through the Cayman Islands to the Apex Syndicate," I continued, taking a step toward them. "And worst of all, Arthur... digitalis poisoning. Forty-eight hours ago. You didn't just commit corporate treason. You murdered your own father."
Gasps echoed through the room. Several board members pushed their chairs back and literally ran for the exit doors, desperate to distance themselves from what was rapidly turning into a capital murder investigation.
Arthur’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. Then, his expression hardened into something ugly and feral.
He reached into his pocket and pressed a button on a small electronic transponder.
May you like
Instantly, the heavy oak double doors of the salon clicked shut. From the terrace windows outside, six heavily armed men in sterile black tactical gear—not private security guards, but professional mercenaries carrying suppressed carbines—moved into positions covering every exit.
"Nobody leaves," Arthur said, his voice dropping into a sinister, desperate rasp. "Nobody leaves this room alive until those documents are burned and that tablet is destroyed."
