Chapter 8 - THE STAGE COLLAPSES
-8-
The roar of shock and confusion that erupted from the grand ballroom below sounded like a tidal wave crashing against the base of the Biltmore’s historic stone walls. Five hundred of North Carolina’s most powerful politicians, corporate executives, and high-society donors sat paralyzed, their eyes glued to the thirty-foot projector screens where Clara’s pale, haunted face filled the room.
“Julian didn't build Hayes Logistics on vision,” Clara’s recorded voice continued, steady and unyielding, cutting through the murmurs like a knife. “He built it on forged signatures, offshore money laundering, and the systematic elimination of anyone who threatened his control. If the authorities are watching this, check the corporate vaults under the maiden name Vance-Sterling. The paper trail of my father’s murder is right there.”
On the main stage, Julian Vance finally snapped out of his paralysis. He grabbed the microphone off its stand, his face twisted into an ugly, manic mask of rage.
"Cut the screens! Cut the power! It's a deepfake! It's a cyberattack!" Julian screamed into the microphone, his voice cracking with sheer panic as security guards began scrambling toward the stage steps. "Technical team, shut down the master grid right now!"
Up in the AV control room, Nora watched him panic through the monitoring screens, a cold, satisfied smile touching her lips.
"He's trying to fry the local hardware," Nora noted calmly, her fingers dancing across her tablet. "He thinks he can destroy the server before the file finishes looping."
"Can he?" I asked, gripping the edge of the console.
"Not while I have root access," she replied, executing a rapid firewall block that locked out every external terminal command originating from the stage. "His technicians are locked out. The video will loop until every person in that room has memorized every single word of his confession."
Downstairs, the chaos reached a boiling point. Several prominent donors were already grabbing their coats, rushing toward the grand exits as scandal-hungry reporters whipped out their phones, frantically recording the massive projection screens and live-streaming the meltdown to the entire state.
Julian dropped the microphone, abandoning the stage entirely as he bolted toward the private backstage exit, desperate to reach his private security detail and vanish before the police arrived.
"He's running," I said, pointing at the secondary security monitor tracking the backstage corridors.
"Good," Nora said, standing up from her chair and drawing her Glock. "Because we're going to be waiting for him at the service exit."
We didn't take the elevator. We sprinted back down the concrete service stairs, our boots pounding against the steps as we descended into the basement labyrinth of the Biltmore’s sprawling kitchens. The caterers and waitstaff were standing around in stunned clusters, watching the chaos unfold on the kitchen’s small wall-mounted television, entirely ignoring the food cooling on the prep stations.
Nora led me through a heavy swing door out into the freezing, snow-swept alleyway behind the catering wing.
The blizzard had slowed to a steady, biting flurry. Parked near the loading bay was Julian’s personal bulletproof Maybach, its engine idling, headlights cutting through the swirling white snow. Two private security guards stood beside the rear door, scanning the shadows with anxious expressions, waiting for their boss to emerge.
"Stay here in the shadow of the dumpster," Nora instructed me, sliding a spare magazine into her tactical vest.
"What are you going to do?" I whispered.
"Cut off the extraction," she said simply.
Before I could blink, Nora moved with terrifying, predatory speed. She didn't charge them head-on; she slipped through the falling snow along the edge of the brick wall, closing the distance to the two armed guards before they even realized she was there.
Two muffled thuds—the sound of suppressed pistol butts connecting with heavy skulls—and both guards collapsed into the snow without firing a single shot.
The rear exit door of the banquet wing banged open.
Julian Vance stumbled out into the alley, having torn off his tuxedo bowtie, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he reached for the handle of the Maybach.
"Car! Open the damn car!" Julian yelled, not looking at his guards as he yanked the rear door open.
He climbed into the back seat, slamming the door shut—only to find the interior bathed in darkness, with a cold, steel pistol barrel resting gently against the bridge of his nose.
Julian froze. He slowly lifted his eyes from the barrel of the gun to the person sitting in the opposite seat.
May you like
It wasn't his driver.
It was me.
