Chapter 8 - The Ghost At The Boardroom Table
Shots rang out through the blinding haze.
Dr. Chen collapsed behind the metal operating table.
Tobias vaulted over the gurney.
He snatched Marcus’s discarded pistol from my belt.
He fired three rounds into the smoke.
A man in black tactical gear dropped to the floor.
Tobias grabbed my arm.
He hauled me to my feet with superhuman strength.
“Move!” he bellowed in my ear.
The ringing in my head was agonizing.
The flashbang had destroyed my balance.
I looked back through the smoke.
Two masked men were already lifting Penelope’s unconscious form off the table.
They tossed her onto a military-style stretcher.
“They’re taking her!” I screamed.
“We can’t save her if we’re dead!” Tobias shouted back.
He shoved me through a rear fire exit into an alley.
Bullets chewed through the brickwork around our heads.
Dust and mortar showered our hair.
Tobias turned and fired the remaining rounds from the magazine.
Another attacker stumbled back inside the clinic.
Tobias slammed the heavy iron fire door.
He jammed the tire iron through the door handles.
It held.
Heavy impacts pounded against the other side.
“Truck’s gone,” Tobias said, breathing heavily.
“They boxed the alley.”
We ran down the rain-drenched lane.
The morning light was finally breaking through the clouds.
It was nine-fifteen.
The Mercer Harbor Board of Directors meeting was scheduled for ten.
Forty-five minutes remained.
If Garrett walked into that boardroom with forged death certificates, the
company was gone.
The trust would transfer to the port authority.
To Julian Sterling.
“We don't have a car,” I panted.
My lungs burned from the smoke.
Tobias pointed down the street.
An old Harley-Davidson sat parked behind an auto repair shop.
Tobias didn't ask for permission.
He ripped the wiring harness from beneath the handlebars.
He sparked the leads together.
The engine roared to life with a guttural, deafening rumble.
“Get on,” he yelled.
I swung my leg over the leather seat.
I wrapped my arms around his waist.
We tore out of the alley onto the boulevard.
The cold rain slashed against my face like needles.
The city rushed past in a blur of gray concrete and yellow cabs.
Every billboard seemed to mock me.
MERCER SHIPYARDS: BUILDING AMERICA’S FUTURE.
My family’s legacy.
Built with my father’s sweat and my mother’s devotion.
Stolen by a cabal of ghosts and cowards.
We reached the downtown financial district at nine-forty-five.
The Mercer Tower pierced the low clouds like an iron needle.
Dozens of police cruisers were parked out front.
News vans had extended their satellite masts.
Reporters in raincoats stood outside the revolving doors.
They were broadcasting live:
“We are waiting for Garrett Vance to address the board.”
“The young CEO is expected to assume full control following the tragic loss of
his family.”
Tobias ditched the motorcycle on the sidewalk.
Pedestrians jumped out of the way.
He pulled a black baseball cap low over his brow.
He handed me Dad’s flash drive.
“The board room is on the fortieth floor,” Tobias said.
“Garrett has security guards at every elevator.”
“How do we get up?” I asked.
Tobias smiled.
It was a cold, wolfish grin.
“We use the freight lift.”
“The one Dad built for heavy machinery models.”
“It has a private override code only Mercer heirs know.”
We slipped through the subterranean loading dock.
The guards were busy watching the front lobby circus on their monitors.
Tobias punched a six-digit code into the industrial keypad.
The heavy steel elevator doors groaned open.
We stepped inside.
The lift climbed with agonizing slowness.
Floor 10.
Floor 20.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trip-hammer.
Floor 30.
I pulled out a small pocket mirror from my jacket.
I cleaned the soot from my cheeks.
I wiped the blood from my mouth.
I took the rubber band out of my hair.
My dark locks fell over my shoulders.
I was no longer the drowning victim in the river.
I was Rosalind Mercer.
The rightful owner of every rivet and steel beam in this city.
Floor 40.
The elevator chimed.
The heavy doors parted.
The executive hallway was carpeted in deep crimson.
Double mahogany doors stood open at the end of the corridor.
Inside sat the twelve members of the executive board.
Garrett stood at the head of the long oak table.
He was dressed in a pristine black Italian suit.
His hair was perfectly styled.
He had a black ribbon pinned to his lapel.
He held a gold pen in his right hand.
Beside him stood the city notary.
A thick stack of documents lay open before him.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Garrett’s voice carried down the hall.
He sounded choked with grief.
“This is the most painful day of my life.”
“Rosalind was my soul.”
“Tobias was my brother.”
“Their sacrifice in that river will not be forgotten.”
Garrett dabbed at his eye with a linen handkerchief.
Several older board members wiped away tears.
“Under section four of the Mercer family charter,” Garrett continued, “I now
submit the certificates of presumptive demise.”
“I assume full fiduciary control of the shipyard assets.”
“I do this not for myself.”
“I do this in their memory.”
He leaned over the table.
He lowered the gold pen to the signature line.
“Stop the meeting,” a voice rang out.
It wasn't Tobias.
It was me.
I walked through the double doors.
My boots left wet footprints on the deep red carpet.
Garrett froze.
The gold pen stopped an inch above the parchment.
Every board member gasped.
Two elderly women shrieked in horror.
Garrett’s head turned slowly.
His face was a mask of sheer, unadulterated terror.
His eyes went wide.
His jaw dropped slack.
The color drained from his skin until he looked like chalk.
“Rosalind?” Garrett choked out.
His voice broke into a high-pitched squeak.
“You’re late for the signing, darling,” I said.
My voice echoed off the soundproofed walls.
“I brought a witness with me.”
Tobias stepped into the room behind me.
He didn't have a wheelchair.
He didn't have crutches.
He walked with the broad-shouldered, powerful stride of an athlete.
He threw Dad’s flash drive onto the mahogany table.
It slid across the polished wood and struck Garrett’s pen.
“Tobias?” an elderly director stammered, rising from his chair.
“You’re... you’re standing?”
“I’ve been standing for fifteen years, Arthur,” Tobias said coldly.
“Waiting for this snake to show his teeth.”
Garrett backed away from the table.
His hands shook uncontrollably.
“Security!” Garrett screamed.
“Security! These people are impostors!”
“They’re terrorists!”
The two private security guards in the room reached for their holsters.
Tobias moved like lightning.
He seized the first guard’s wrist, twisted it upward, and slammed his head into
the oak wall.
The second guard hesitated.
Tobias took the guard’s pistol and leveled it at Garrett’s chest.
May you like
“Sit down, Garrett,” Tobias said softly.
“We have an audit to conduct.”
