Chapter 3 - The Bloodline of Beaumont
Before Pike could make his decision, the heavy double doors at the balcony VIP suite clicked open. Julian Beaumont himself descended the curved marble staircase. Julian was sixty-five, silver-haired, draped in bespoke cashmere, and carried the effortless swagger of a man who believed every single person on earth had a purchase price.
"Put the sidearm away, Sheriff," Julian called out, clapping his hands in slow, deliberate mockery. The sound was like dry twigs snapping. "We don't need gunfire staining the Persian rugs. Not when a simple checkbook can resolve the matter."
Julian stopped three paces away from Marcus, staring at the older man with utter disdain.
"Marcus Reed," Julian sighed, shaking his head. "I remember when you applied for a modest small-business loan at my regional branch eight years ago. You were denied because your military pension was deemed insufficient collateral. And now you walk into my country club, during my annual charity gala, strike my son, and lock our security gates?"
Julian sneered, glancing at Claire. "Your daughter is stubborn, Marcus. She developed a synthetic blood-clotting polymer using state research grants. We offered her three million dollars to assign the patent to Beaumont Medical. She refused. So Preston simply applied a bit of high-society persuasion. That is how the world works. The powerful acquire, and the weak adapt."
"High-society persuasion?" Marcus asked, his tone dropping an octave. "Three grown men trapping a twenty-six-year-old woman in a corner, pouring alcohol over her, and threatening to manufacture criminal fraud charges against her company?"
"It’s leverage," Julian chuckled dismissively. "And right now, you have none. You think locking down these automated fire barriers makes you formidable? Pike answers to me. The mayor answers to me. The regional telecommunications grid runs through my servers. In five minutes, private security will cut through those emergency overrides, and you will spend the rest of your natural life in a supermax facility for domestic terrorism."
Marcus reached into his pocket and pulled out a rugged satellite handset—thick, carbon-fiber coated, running on an independent orbital band. He pressed a direct tactical line.
The speaker crackled immediately. A sharp, commanding voice sounded throughout the silent room:
*"NCA Priority One established. Command Center online. Authenticate, Specter-Six."*
Marcus spoke four words into the receiver: "Zero. Iron. Eclipse. Seven."
There was an immediate intake of breath on the other end of the line. The operator’s voice lost all bureaucratic monotony, turning instantly rigid.
May you like
*"Authentication verified. General Vance is patch-transferring now. Stand by, sir."*
Julian Beaumont’s smirk began to waver. Sheriff Pike took an involuntary step backward, the blood draining completely from his face.
