Chapter 8 - The Cornered Rat
I slowly stood up from the desk, keeping my hands visible. The rage inside me was a physical weight, but I forced my breathing to remain steady. Panic gets you killed. Focus keeps you alive.
"You sold us out," I said, my voice echoing off the glass walls. "You gave the rebels our flight coordinates. You killed my crew, Dick. Goodman had a two-year-old daughter. Miller was three months away from retirement. You slaughtered them for a shipping profit."
My father took a step into the room, the revolver shaking slightly in his hand, but his expression hardened into something entirely monstrous.
"They were collateral damage!" he shouted, his eyes wide and manic. "The company was collapsing! Vale Enterprises has been the bedrock of this family for four generations! I couldn't let it fall! I didn't know you would be on that specific flight, Maren! I thought you were stationed at the base! It was a mistake!"
"A mistake?" I echoed, taking a slow step out from behind the desk. "You didn't seem to mind the mistake when you were printing up the banners for my memorial foundation. You didn't mind it when you were holding that three-million-dollar check last night."
"It was the only way to clean the money!" he hissed. "The foundation was going to absorb the insurance payout, wash it through charity grants, and inject it back into the shipping line. It was a perfect plan! Until you walked through those doors!"
He nodded to the two men behind him. "Take the drive from the computer. And get rid of her. Make it look like she jumped from the balcony. A tragic suicide brought on by PTSD from her survival. The media will eat it up."
The two hired thugs stepped forward, pulling heavy batons from their jackets. They looked professional, but they were used to intimidating union workers and corporate whistleblowers. They weren't used to fighting a woman who had spent the last six months hand-to-hand killing insurgents in the jungle.
The first man lunged at me, swinging his baton toward my head.
I ducked underneath the swing, closing the distance instantly. I grabbed his forearm, twisting it down while driving my palm upward into his nose. I felt the bone shatter under the impact. He groaned, dropping to his knees as blood erupted from his face.
The second man rushed me from the side, trying to tackle me to the ground.
I stepped into his momentum, grabbed his lapels, and used his own weight to execute a perfect sacrifice throw. He flew over my shoulder, crashing violently through my father's heavy glass coffee table. The glass shattered into thousands of pieces, and he lay there, groaning, pinned by the shards.
I turned back to my father.
He was standing alone, his face completely pale, his revolver pointed directly at my chest. His hand was shaking so badly the barrel was tracing erratic circles in the air.
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"Stay back!" he screamed, his voice cracking. "Stay back, Maren! I swear to God I'll shoot you!"
"Go ahead," I said, taking a step toward him, completely unafraid. "Shoot your own daughter, Dick. Let the whole world see what kind of man you really are."
