Chapter 194 Walking Into the Syndicate Trap
"You wore the Chairman suit. I expected a bulletproof vest."
The voice echoed off the damp brick walls.
I stopped walking. The heavy iron door clanged shut behind me, severing the gray morning light. The air inside the abandoned textile mill tasted like rust and decay.
"A vest ruins the tailoring, Oliver," I said.
Oliver Pembroke stepped out of the shadows. He did not wear his bespoke suit today. He wore a dark trench coat. Four men flanked him. They did not wear corporate attire. They wore tactical gear. They held suppressed rifles. Their faces remained blank, empty of hesitation.
"You walked in here alone," Pembroke said. A cruel smile stretched his face. "Arrogant to the end."
"I walked in here to get a name," I corrected. I kept my posture straight. My heart hammered against my ribs, but I forced my voice to remain flat. "You are spending Thomas Whitmore's money. You are moving his ships. But you do not have the intellect to run a syndicate, Oliver. Who holds his power of attorney?"
Pembroke’s smile slipped. The reminder of his puppet status stung.
"You think you control the board because you sit at the head of the table," Pembroke said. He paced in front of his armed guards. "But the board is an illusion. Money is the only truth. Thomas Whitmore has more money buried in the dark than Aegis could generate in a decade. His proxy is buying the entire eastern seaboard."
"His proxy is hiding behind a failed executive," I countered. "You are the face they chose to take the bullets. When this fails, they will cut you loose. They will erase you."
"It will not fail," he stated. He pulled a heavy handgun from his coat pocket. He did not point it at me. He held it down by his side, a casual display of power. "Because you are going to transfer the shipping manifests to Vanguard right now. You are going to sign the authorization codes, Minerva. Or my men will break your knees, and you will sign them on the floor."
"You want my authorization?" I asked. I took a step toward him. He tensed. "You want Aegis? You have to take it from my cold hands."
"There is no negotiation today," Pembroke spat. He took a step back, letting the armed men move forward. "You humiliated me in front of the board. You took my career. Today, I take your life. The syndicate takes your empire."
I glanced at the shattered skylight above. Three minutes left.
"If I die, my husband burns this entire sector to ash," I told him. "He will not stop until he mounts your head on the Johnston boardroom table."
"Tristan Johnston is a neutered dog," Pembroke sneered. "He plays by your rules now. He is too busy playing house to fight in the dirt."
"He broke my rules last night," I said. "He hired a cleaner to end you. I called the contract off. I see now that was a mistake."
Fear flashed in Pembroke’s eyes. A genuine, raw terror. He knew Tristan’s reputation. He knew the monster I married.
But Pembroke recovered. He raised his hand.
"Kill her."
The rusted iron doors behind me exploded.
A black armored SUV rammed through the brick and metal, the engine screaming like a wounded animal. Dust, concrete chunks, and jagged steel rained from the ceiling. Marcus did not wait five minutes. He gave me three.
Gunfire erupted. The sound tore through the cavernous mill, a deafening, chaotic roar that vibrated in my teeth and rattled my skull. The suppressors on the syndicate rifles were useless against the echoing chaos of a tactical breach.
"Get down!" Marcus shouted. He kicked his door open before the vehicle stopped moving. His boots hit the dirt.
I dropped to the concrete. A bullet chipped the brick pillar inches from my head. Stone fragments bit into my cheek.
Pembroke scrambled toward a back exit. He abandoned his men without a second thought. A coward in the boardroom. A coward in the dirt.
Marcus moved through the crossfire. He did not flinch. He fired his heavy sidearm, dropping the closest syndicate shooter. He reached me, grabbing the collar of my wool jacket.
"Move!" Marcus commanded.
He hauled me toward the open door of the SUV. The Johnston security team laid down suppressive fire from the courtyard, forcing the remaining syndicate men behind rusted textile looms.
We reached the vehicle. I grabbed the door frame.
A shadow shifted on the rusted catwalk above us.
Marcus saw the movement. He did not shout a warning. He did not hesitate. He grabbed my shoulders and shoved me hard into the backseat of the SUV.
A single gunshot cracked from the catwalk. It sounded different. Heavier.
Marcus jerked backward. A wet, sickening thud resonated over the chaos.