“Somebody pumped eight hundred parts per million of synthetic carbon monoxide through her cabin filtration system.”
“Hoping she would suffer an ‘accidental’ cardiac arrest on the mountain curve before eight-thirty.”
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Carter Holbrook let out an un-human, feral wail from the bottom of his lungs.
The sixty-two-year-old corporate titan lunged across the walnut table, his hands hooked into claws, his silk tie flying over his shoulder, aiming directly for the titanium key in my hand:
“GIVE IT TO ME! THAT KEY CARRIES THE ENCRYPTED LEDGER! WITHOUT THAT KEY, THE ZURICH CLEARINGHOUSE WILL FREEZE MY ASSETS IN TWENTY MINUTES!”
CLACK.
Carter never cleared the table.
From the hallway behind me, the sound of eight-inch combat boots striking the polished concrete floorboards echoed with concussive, military authority:
STOMP. STOMP. STOMP.
Stepping through the shattered frame of the double doors, moving with that fluid, terrifying, synchronized velocity of an active-duty federal tactical stack…
