Chapter 8 - The Cornered Rat
Julian didn't run to Mexico, and he didn't run to Zurich.
A narcissist doesn't flee when his empire collapses; he seeks someone to punish. He truly believed, with every fiber of his warped, arrogant mind, that I had stolen *his* money. He convinced himself that if he could just force me into a room alone, he could intimidate me into signing the releases.
It happened late on Friday night.
I had returned to the Westwood penthouse after spending five hours with the data science faculty at UCLA finalizing my freshman research grant. Malcolm had gone back to his office to review the final forfeiture filings.
The underground parking garage of the penthouse building was quiet, lit by the hum of pale fluorescent tubes.
I parked my car in my designated space, grabbed my backpack, and stepped out onto the concrete.
A shadow detached itself from behind a structural pillar.
"Maya."
I spun around, my pulse instantly jumping into my throat.
Julian stood there. He was wearing an unwashed dark windbreaker, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. His stubble was thick and graying, his eyes bloodshot, smelling heavily of cheap bourbon and sweat. In his right hand, he held a heavy steel tire iron.
"Julian," I said, taking a slow, calculated step backward toward the driver's side door of my car.
"Don't move," he snarled, raising the tire iron. "Don't you dare touch your phone. Drop the bag."
I slowly lowered my backpack to the concrete floor. "Julian, there are cameras covering every inch of this garage. If you touch me, you won't just go to federal prison for fraud. You'll go away for life."
"I'm already going away!" he screamed, his voice echoing violently off the concrete walls. "The SEC filed an indictment two hours ago! The marshals are at my office! Sterling abandoned me! My company is gone! Everything I built for ten years—destroyed because a spoiled little girl couldn't share what she didn't even earn!"
"You didn't build anything, Julian," I said, keeping my voice steady, my eyes locked on his hands. "You stole from my father while he was dying. You stole from the Dallas investors. You stole from Eleanor. You're a thief who ran out of lies."
"Shut up!" he roared, lunging forward, raising the iron bar above his shoulder. "You're going to call Price right now! You're going to wire five million to an account in the Caymans, or I swear to God I'll smash your skull against this pavement!"
He was three feet away.
Suddenly, a deafening screech of tires tore through the garage.
A black SUV rounded the corner at forty miles per hour, its high beams catching Julian directly in a blinding white glare.
Julian threw his hands up to shield his eyes.
Before he could react, two car doors flew open. Marcus and three federal agents in tactical vests leaped out, weapons drawn and leveled at Julian’s chest.
"Federal Bureau of Investigation! Drop the weapon! Drop it now!"
The metallic clang of the tire iron hitting the concrete floor sounded like church bells.
Julian dropped to his knees, his hands trembling violently above his head. His eyes were wide with pure, pathetic terror as two federal agents pushed him face-down onto the oil-stained concrete and snapped heavy steel handcuffs around his wrists.
Special Agent Miller walked over to me, checking my perimeter. "Ms. Whitman, are you injured?"
"I'm fine," I breathed, letting out a long, ragged exhale I felt like I had been holding for years. "Thank you."
"We've been tracking his burner phone since he left Glendale," Agent Miller said, looking down at Julian with disgust. "Julian Vance, you are under arrest for federal securities fraud, wire fraud, extortion, and attempted aggravated assault. You have the right to remain silent..."
As they hauled Julian to his feet and shoved him into the back of the transport vehicle, he looked back at me one last time.
The arrogance was gone. The polished Silicon Valley veneer was gone.
May you like
There was only a broken, aging con man being dragged away into the dark.
***
