Chapter 3 - The Dragon's Den
Rain lashed against the black glass of the Apex Bio-Tech tower as my armored motorcade pulled into the subterranean parking bay.
Prescott sat beside me in the back seat, checking his suppressed submachine gun. Across from us sat Clara, dressed in a tactical coat, her face rigid with determination.
"The vault is on Sub-Level 4," Clara whispered over the hum of the idling engine. "It requires a two-factor biometric lock. Genevieve’s retinal scan—which I have stored on a high-resolution optical emulator—and a physical keycard."
"Where is the keycard?" I asked.
"Crosby keeps it in his personal safe on the top floor," she replied.
"Then we divide his focus," I said.
I turned to Prescott. "Take six men and breach the main security grid on the third floor. Trigger the fire suppression alarms and kill the power to the main elevators. Crosby’s security team will flood the middle levels to secure the building."
"And you?" Prescott asked.
"Clara and I are taking the private service lift straight to the top floor."
Ten minutes later, I stood in the palatial penthouse office of Crosby Vane.
Floor-to-ceiling glass overlooked the storm-drenched Chicago skyline. Crosby sat behind a glass desk, a snifter of scotch in his hand, flanked by four heavily armed mercenaries. He was sixty years old, with silver hair, sharp features, and a smile like a razor blade.
"Lawson," Crosby purred, standing up and opening his arms in mock welcome. "I didn't think you'd actually come alone. Grief really does make monsters soft."
"Where is it, Crosby?" I asked, not bothering to move my hand away from my coat pocket.
Crosby chuckled, taking a slow sip of his drink. "Where is what? The cure your brilliant wife tried so hard to keep from me? Did you really think I didn't know what Genevieve was doing in my basement?"
My eyes narrowed. "You killed her."
"She was stubborn," Crosby said carelessly. "She refused to share her patents with Apex. She wanted to give her research away to public hospitals—to save penniless trash. I offered her fifty million dollars for the therapy. She laughed in my face. So... her car had a steering mechanical failure on the icy turn near the lake."
Hearing him confess to Genevieve's murder in such a casual tone made every muscle in my body coil like a steel spring.
"And now," Crosby continued, walking around his desk, "your little girl and boy are bleeding out from the inside. Ten days, isn't that what Yates said? I'll trade you the cryo-keycard, Lawson. Right now. In exchange for fifty-one percent of Mercer Shipping and complete control of your board."
"You missed one thing, Crosby," I said softly.
He frowned. "What's that?"
"I didn't come here to trade."
Downstairs, a deafening explosion rocked the tower.
The lights instantly died, plunging the penthouse into pitch blackness. Red emergency strobe lights began flashing, and the piercing roar of fire alarms shattered the silence.
Before Crosby’s guards could raise their rifles, I drew my weapon. Three controlled double-taps echoed through the dark room. Crosby’s men dropped before they even cleared their holsters.
Crosby fell backward against his desk, clutching a shattered shoulder, screaming in terror.
May you like
I stepped over the bodies, grabbed him by his tie, and hauled him up. I pressed the warm barrel of my gun directly under his chin.
"The keycard," I whispered into his ear. "Or I blow your head off and tear this desk apart with my bare hands."
