Chapter 74 - The Circuit Breaks
The explosion of heavy glass and amber liquor was deafening in the enclosed room.
The satellite terminal’s LCD screen shattered into a spiderweb of violent sparks and blue smoke. High-voltage circuitry hissed as eighty-proof scotch flooded the internal capacitors. A sharp, chemical smell of burning silicon and alcohol instantly filled the parlor.
"What have you done?!" Mercer roared, drawing his automatic pistol from beneath his coat.
Governor Sterling jumped backward out of his leather chair, scotch dripping from his silk tie, his face purple with rage. "Kill her! Mercer, kill her now!"
"Shoot me, and the vault locks permanently!" I screamed, slamming both hands down on the cracked mahogany desk, shards of crystal cutting into my palms. Blood welled up between my fingers, hot and bright. "The satellite link was mid-handshake! You break the local connection without an authenticated hand-off, and the Swiss server defaults to Level Four! Total lock!"
Mercer froze, his gun barrel shaking six inches from my forehead. His finger was white against the trigger. Sweat was pouring down his temples.
"Is that true, Pendelton?!" Mercer screamed over his shoulder, not daring to pull the trigger. "Is that true?!"
Pendelton stepped forward, his aged eyes blazing with sudden, ferocious energy. He didn't look like a trembling old man anymore; he looked like the chief legal counsel of the most ruthless syndicate in New York.
"It is Marcus Vance’s failsafe, you idiot!" Pendelton shouted, his voice ringing against the high plaster ceiling. "The system reads that terminal’s destruction as an in-progress hardware tampering attack! The Swiss clearinghouse is currently severing the uplink! In thirty seconds, every municipal bond your Governor holds in offshore shell accounts will be frozen under federal anti-money-laundering warrants!"
"Get the backup terminal from the communications van!" Sterling screamed at the two state troopers by the door. "Move! Go!"
The two troopers bolted through the double doors, their boots slamming against the marble gallery.
In that split second of complete chaos, Sofia began to scream. Clara grabbed the girl, dragging her toward the heavy velvet curtains beside the fireplace.
"You think you're clever, girl?" Mercer snarled through his teeth, stepping closer, pressing the cold steel muzzle of his Glock directly against the bridge of my nose. "You think you can save them with a broken monitor? I don't need Zurich to put a bullet through your skull. I’ll kill you, I’ll kill the wife, and I’ll put the girl in a concrete footing beneath the new stadium!"
"Do it, Mercer," I whispered, staring straight into his bloodshot eyes. "Pull the trigger. Show Governor Sterling what happens when you murder the third key."
A sudden, sharp mechanical chime echoed through the room.
It didn't come from the broken desk terminal.
It came from Mercer’s own breast pocket.
Mercer blinked, his expression faltering. The gun muzzle wavered against my forehead.
He reached inside his coat with his left hand and pulled out his encrypted satellite phone. The screen was pulsing with a brilliant crimson alert.
*INCOMING TRANSMISSION: ORIGIN — CENTRE STREET BASEMENT GRID.*
"What is that?" Sterling demanded, wiping scotch from his chin with a trembling hand. "Mercer, what is that frequency?!"
Mercer’s face drained of color until he looked like a corpse. "It's... it's the Warden’s private line. But the caller ID isn't the Warden."
"Answer it!" Sterling barked.
Mercer pressed the button with a shaking thumb and brought the phone to his ear. He put it on speaker.
A crackle of static hissed through the small speaker. Then, a low, rasping, unmistakable voice filled the Governor’s grand drawing room.
It was a voice that had ruled Hell’s Kitchen for thirty years. A voice that had ordered the deaths of sixteen rival captains and broken the corrupt docks of Brooklyn with a word.
"Thomas," Marcus Vance said.
Governor Sterling went completely rigid. His hands gripped the edge of his desk so hard the wood groaned. "Marcus...?"
"You're in my parlor, Thomas," Marcus’s voice said, slow, rhythmic, and deadly calm. Behind his voice, the muffled sound of emergency sirens and distant shouting echoed down an iron corridor. "You’re standing on my carpet. You’re drinking scotch I paid for twenty years ago. And your attack dog has a gun pointed at Sarah."
"Where are you?!" Sterling screamed into the phone. "The doctor administered the potassium! You’re on the bunk in solitary!"
A dry, dark chuckle came through the speaker.
"Julian says to tell you your prison doctors are cheap, Thomas. They used generic saline. The Warden’s deputy took five hundred thousand dollars from my escrow three years ago to ensure my family never gets sick in his house."
A heavy thud sounded through the line—the sound of an iron security door being blown off its hinges by a hydraulic spreader.
"I’m not in solitary, Thomas," Marcus whispered. "I haven't been in solitary for twenty minutes. I’m in the basement sub-station beneath Centre Street. I have the master dispatch logs for the New York State Police. I have the phone records between your private residence and the hit team on the bridge."
Sterling stumbled backward, knocking over his leather chair. The heavy chair crashed onto the floor. "Marcus... listen to me. We had an arrangement. We can still handle this. The Anvil Trust—"
"The Anvil Trust is gone, Thomas," Marcus cut in. "Sarah broke the circuit. Just like I knew she would. The minute the link severed, Zurich routed the unencrypted ledger to the Federal Grand Jury in Brooklyn. United States Marshals are pulling out of the Foley Square depot right now. They have arrest warrants for thirty-four state officials. And you’re number one on the docket."
Mercer looked at the phone, then at Sterling, then at me. His eyes were wide with pure, animal panic. The predator had just realized he was inside the slaughterhouse.
May you like
"Mercer," Sterling hissed, his voice breaking into a panicked squeak. "Kill them. Kill all of them. Burn the house down. We take the helicopter from the East River pad. We go to Montreal—"
Before Sterling could finish his sentence, the heavy French doors leading to the mansion’s rear terrace exploded inward in a shower of flying glass and splintered wood.
