Chapter 7 - THE DUAL AUTHORIZATION
The blackened metal box felt heavy and cold in my hands as the firefighter handed it over. The exterior was scorched by soot, but the heavy iron latch remained intact.
I didn't care about the smoke or the ruined drywall of my old life anymore. My phone screen was still glowing in the dark, flashing the urgent notification: PENDING WIRE TRANSFER — $45,000,000 — AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED.
Thomas thought he had cornered me. He burned my apartment to terrorize me, assuming I would panic, crawl back to the office, and blindly authorize the wire transfer just to save my own skin, or that I’d be too distracted by the loss of my home to notice the financial bleeding.
He severely underestimated how cold an auditor’s blood gets when you mess with her numbers.
“Larkin,” I said, holding up the phone screen so the flickering red light illuminated his face.
Larkin’s eyes scanned the notification. The temperature in the alleyway dropped instantly.
“He’s making his move,” Larkin said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. “With Victor Vance out of the picture, Thomas is trying to loot the syndicate reserves and flee to Zurich before sunrise.”
“He needs my master-key digital signature to clear the escrow,” I pointed out, a sharp, humorless smile touching my lips. “Without me, the money is frozen in the clearinghouse until Monday morning.”
“Which means he thinks you’ll come running to him,” Larkin’s dark eyes flashed with sudden brilliance. “Or... he’s waiting for you at the corporate tower right now.”
Larkin turned to Malcolm, who was jogging up from the police barricade.
“Boss, we intercepted one of Thomas’s burners,” Malcolm reported, holding out a cloned mobile device. “He’s holed up on the 42nd floor of the tower. He’s got three armed mercenaries from Marcus Vance’s crew with him, and a chopper waiting on the roof.”
“He thinks he’s staging a coup,” Larkin said, adjusting his cuffs. “Let’s go show him how an audit ends.”
We didn't go back to the Maybach. We took Malcolm’s tactical SUV straight to the Financial District, cutting through the deserted midnight streets of Manhattan like a blade.
By the time we pulled into the underground subterranean garage of the glass tower, snow was swirling in blinding sheets outside.
The security gates were down, but Malcolm’s men had already overridden the digital locks. The parking bay was empty, save for Thomas’s personal black sedan idling near the private elevator lobby.
“Stay behind me,” Larkin ordered, drawing his Sig Sauer pistol and clicking off the safety.
“Mr. Steves,” I said, opening my clutch bag and pulling out the heavy, steel-tipped stiletto heel I had unclipped from my shoe during the drive. “I’m not a bystander tonight. I’m the auditor.”
Larkin looked down at me, a flicker of fierce, undeniable respect burning in his eyes. He gave a single, sharp nod.
We stepped into the private executive elevator. The digital floor indicator climbed rapidly: 10... 25... 38... 41...
42.
The chime rang out. The doors slid open silently.
The 42nd-floor executive suite was dark, illuminated only by the neon glow of the Manhattan skyline through the massive glass walls.
Standing behind my old glass-partitioned cubicle, holding a laptop in one hand and a glass of scotch in the other, was Thomas Steves.
And flanking him were three armed mercenaries with assault rifles resting casually across their chests.
Thomas looked up, his reckless, arrogant face splitting into a broad, ugly grin as he saw us step out of the elevator.
“Well, well,” Thomas laughed, taking a sip of his scotch. “Look who decided to show up for the final audit. I figured you’d be crying over your burned-down closet, Penelope.”
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He set his glass down on my old desk—the very desk where I had placed his black coffee every morning at 8:15 for three years.
“Sign the transfer, Penelope,” Thomas ordered, his voice turning sharp and venomous. “And maybe I won't let Marcus’s boys finish burning down the rest of your life.”
