Chapter 25 - The Subterranean Standoff
Marcus immediately moved his flashlight, the bright beam illuminating a tall, thin man in a light grey linen suit standing on the middle step of the basement stairs. He held a suppressed semi-automatic pistol, pointed directly at Eleanor’s chest. His face was sharp, clean-shaven, his eyes hidden behind dark, amber-tinted sunglasses despite the dimness of the basement.
"Keep the light down, Dr. Vance," the man said, his voice carrying the calm, polite cadence of a professional fixer. "I am Victor Vance. No relation to Julian or Victoria—at least, not on the public records. I handle the international logistics for the family’s maritime holdings out of Montreal."
Eleanor didn't move an inch. She stood before the brick hearth, her body tense but her mind completely clear. "Richard told you about this box."
"Richard is a desperate idiot who tried to sell this information to three different people to get his sentence reduced," Victor Vance smiled, stepping down onto the concrete floor. "But I’m the only one who had a team in Columbus ready to follow your rental car from the airport. The box, Dr. Vance. Slide it across the floor."
Marcus held the iron box in his left hand, his right hand hovering near the hammer. "This box belongs to the Sinclair estate, Mr. Vance. If you take it, you are adding federal grand larceny to the international warrants currently out for your family's shipping company."
"Warrants are only useful if there’s an agency alive to enforce them, Doctor," Victor said, taking another step closer, his weapon rock-steady. "The data inside that box contains the physical bearer bonds for the original Vance-Sinclair holding company in Panama—forty million dollars in un-traceable currency that the Department of Justice thinks was dissolved five years ago. My family needs that capital to clear our accounts in Europe. Give it to me, and you both walk out of this basement alive. Refuse, and this house undergoes a very tragic, very accidental gas explosion due to ancient plumbing."
Eleanor looked at the man, then at Marcus. She saw the subtle shift in Marcus’s weight—the slight tensing of his thigh muscles that indicated he was preparing to throw the heavy iron box at Victor’s head.
"Marcus, don't," Eleanor said, her voice cutting through the damp air like a command in an operating room. "Give him the box."
Marcus looked at her, his eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and shock. "Eleanor—"
"Give it to him," she repeated, her eyes locked onto Victor’s weapon. "The money isn't worth our lives, Marcus. Let him take the bonds. They are stained with thirty years of fraud anyway."
Marcus hesitated for a second, then lowered his arm, sliding the oilcloth-wrapped box across the smooth concrete floor. It stopped inches from Victor’s leather boots.
Victor smiled, keeping his weapon trained on them as he knelt with fluid grace, picking up the box with his left hand. "A very sensible clinical decision, Dr. Sinclair. You truly are a pragmatist."
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He backed up toward the stairs, the box tucked under his arm. "Stay down here for exactly twenty minutes. My men have disabled your vehicle’s ignition system. By the time you walk up to the street, we’ll be across the state line. Have a pleasant evening in Ohio."
He flew up the wooden stairs, the heavy door slamming shut behind him, followed by the loud, metallic sound of the external deadbolt sliding into place, trapping them in the dark basement.
