Chapter 7 - The Third Floor
The third floor of the Whitmore estate was quiet, illuminated only by emergency exit signs and the pale moonlight filtering through the skylights.
Dmitri took the lead, his weapon raised, checking every doorway along the long executive corridor.
"Room 304," Dmitri whispered, pointing toward a reinforced steel door at the end of the hall. "Server room and private office. That’s where Leon is wiping the paper trail."
Victor took the lipstick scanner from Lena, plugged it into an electronic passkey unit, and slapped it against the digital door lock.
The lock beeped twice: ACCESS GRANTED.
The heavy door slid open.
Inside, stacks of computer servers hummed in blue light. Sitting at a massive glass desk was Leon Mercer, frantically pulling hard drives from a master array and jamming them into a heavy leather duffel bag.
When the door opened, Leon froze, a heavy revolver resting on the desk beside his elbow.
"Victor," Leon gasped, his face turning gray under the blue LED lights. "I... I can explain."
"No, Leon," Victor said, stepping into the room, leaning his hands on the edge of the glass desk. "You really can't."
Leon looked at Dmitri’s rifle, then at Victor’s cold eyes, and finally at Lena standing in her emerald dress near the door.
"You brought the maid?" Leon laughed hysterically, a sound born of pure panic. "You brought a fifty-cent laundry girl to my execution?!"
"She isn't here for your execution, Leon," Victor said quietly. "She's here as an auditor."
Victor motioned to Lena. "Tell him what you found in his offshore transfer records, Lena."
Lena stepped forward, pulling a small folded piece of paper from her clutch. She had spent two hours studying Arthur’s financial reports before leaving the tower.
"Account 8849 in Panama," Lena read clearly. "Registered under Mercer Logistics. Twelve million dollars transferred yesterday at 4:00 PM. But you forgot the secondary clearing house tax hold in New York, Leon. The money didn't clear. Arthur froze the transfer twenty minutes ago."
Leon’s jaw dropped. He looked down at his laptop screen. Red error messages were flashing across his financial terminal: FUNDS FROZEN BY COURT ORDER.
"You're broke, Leon," Lena added softly. "And your forged passport was flagged by the Department of Homeland Security ten minutes ago."
Leon let out a roar of rage and reached for the revolver on the desk.
Before his fingers could touch the steel, Dmitri fired once. A high-impact rubber round struck Leon’s wrist, shattering his watch and knocking the gun across the floor.
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Victor walked around the desk, picked up the leather duffel bag of hard drives, and handed it to Lena.
"Take these to Arthur in the Maybach," Victor commanded her gently. "Dmitri and I have some family business to settle."
