Read on to uncover the truth behind what happens next.

9 -

Before we could strike at the gala, we needed safe harbor and physical proof that could withstand federal scrutiny.

At dawn, I drove the old pickup truck to the outskirts of the neighboring county, arriving at Ravenscroft Estate—the private residence of retired Federal Judge Harold Vance, my estranged uncle. Harold had spent thirty years on the federal bench, known throughout the country as a ruthless, incorruptible jurist who had dismantled organized crime syndicates in the 1990s.

When Harold opened the massive oak doors of his fortified stone manor, he took one look at my bruised face, Emily’s exhausted frame, and the military-grade hard drive in my hand, and stepped aside without asking a single question.

“Get inside,” Harold said, his voice deep as thunder. “The coffee is hot.”

Within an hour, Emily was safely asleep in an upstairs guest suite guarded by Harold’s two retired federal marshals.

Downstairs in the library, Harold sat behind his mahogany desk, reviewing the decrypted files on his secure government terminal. His weathered face grew darker with every page he read.

“Julian,” Harold said, removing his reading glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “This is beyond corporate greed. This is treason and mass murder. Sarah uncovered a global biological syndicate operating under the umbrella of Sterling Enterprises.”

“Can we take this to the Department of Justice?” I asked.

“The regional office is compromised,” Harold said grimly. “Marcus Sterling has spent fifteen years placing his proteges into the federal prosecutor’s pool. If you submit this through normal channels, the evidence will be sealed under national security provisions, and you and Emily will suffer a fatal ‘traffic accident’ before the grand jury convenes.”

“Then what do we do?”

“We force their hand,” Harold said, rising from his chair and walking over to his private safe. “We take this directly to the United States Attorney General and broadcast the encrypted files across public satellite networks simultaneously. Marcus cannot bribe a scandal if the entire world watches his daughter confess on live television.”

Before Harold could close the safe, the manor’s perimeter alarms shrieked through the house.

On the security monitors, four black tactical vans had smashed through the outer iron gates of Ravenscroft Estate.

Dozens of armed operatives in unmarked black uniforms swarmed the manicured lawns, deploying smoke canisters and setting up tactical breaching perimeters.

“They tracked the truck’s engine signature through satellite thermal imaging,” Harold cursed, pulling two tactical shotguns and several boxes of ammunition from his vault. “Marcus is desperate. He knows we have the files.”

“Harold, you have to get Emily out of here!” I shouted, racking the slide of a shotgun.

“There is an underground bunker beneath the wine cellar that connects to the old railway tunnel,” Harold said, tossing me a tactical vest. “My marshals will escort Emily through the tunnel to a secure federal safehouse in Washington. But we have to hold this foyer long enough for the pneumatic vault door to seal.”

The front stained-glass windows of the manor shattered inward with a deafening roar as tear gas canisters rained into the foyer.

Heavy gunfire erupted from outside, high-caliber rounds chewing through the oak doors and splintering the antique furniture.

“Take cover!” Harold roared, firing his shotgun through the shattered entryway, blowing back the first two breaching operatives.

I leaned around a marble pillar, returning fire with my weapon. The air grew thick with white smoke, the acrid stench of cordite, and the deafening concussions of tactical flashbangs.

Through the haze of smoke, a familiar, terrifying figure appeared at the breached entrance.

Rebecca Sterling.

She was wearing a black tactical coat, holding an automatic submachine gun, her hair pulled back tightly, her eyes ablaze with an unhinged, psychopathic fury.

“Julian!” she screamed over the gunfire, her voice echoing through the burning hallway like a banshee. “You should have stayed at the altar! You should have let me fix your pathetic, broken life! Where is the girl? Give me Sarah’s drive, or I will burn this house to the ground with you inside it!”