Chapter 22 - The Glass Fortress
I didn't waste a single second screaming. I slammed my hand onto the emergency lockdown button on my desk, initiating a full corporate blackout, and sprinted for the private elevator.
My mind was a calculating machine operating on pure adrenaline. David had taken the day off to stay home with Leo. They were currently inside the estate. The estate that was entirely surrounded by armed mercenaries working for one of the most ruthless syndicates on the planet.
I dialed David’s secure line as my armored SUV tore through the rain-slicked streets of Chicago, my private driver weaving recklessly through traffic.
“Clara? Are you on your way home?” David answered, his voice light and happy. In the background, I could hear the sound of the television playing a cartoon for Leo.
“David, listen to me very carefully,” I ordered, my voice vibrating with absolute urgency. “Do not look out the windows. Do not turn on the perimeter lights. Take Leo and get into the subterranean panic room right now. We are under siege.”
The warmth instantly vanished from David’s voice, replaced by the lethal, protective instincts of a father. “Who is it?”
“The Volkov Syndicate,” I breathed, gripping the leather armrest of the SUV until my knuckles turned white. “Damian was laundering their money. It’s in our home server. They have the house surrounded, and they are going to breach in less than forty minutes. You need to lock down the steel bulkheads.”
“I’m securing Leo now,” David said, the sound of his rapid footsteps echoing over the line. “Clara, do not come to the house. Turn the car around. If they want the server, I’ll blow it to pieces before I let them touch it. But you cannot walk into a kill zone.”
“I am not leaving you and my son to die in a cage, David!” I shouted, tears of pure, desperate rage burning in my eyes. “I am ten minutes away. I am going to buy you time.”
I hung up the phone. I pulled my encrypted laptop from my briefcase and opened it on my lap. If Alexander Thorne wanted to use digital warfare to extort me, he was about to learn why they called me the architect of the internet.
I logged into the estate’s mainframe remotely. I could see the Volkov mercenaries attempting to hack our external security gates. They were using a brute-force algorithm to crack the biometric locks.
“You want the money, Thorne?” I whispered to the glowing screen, my fingers flying across the keys in a blur of motion. “Let’s see how badly you want it.”
May you like
I didn't transfer the eight hundred million dollars to his offshore account. Instead, I initiated a high-frequency trading protocol that I had designed years ago. I broke the eight hundred million dollars into ten thousand micro-transactions. And I began funneling them directly into the public, verifiable bank accounts of Thorne’s most vicious international rivals—competing cartels, shadow governments, and federal intelligence agencies.
I wasn't just erasing his money. I was pinning a massive, glowing target on his back.
