Chapter 8 - Confrontation at the Terminal
Elena kicked open the glass double doors of the administrative suite just as the backup emergency red lights flickered on, painting the corridors in blood-colored hues. She dashed up the steel flight of stairs toward the main server hub, Julian right on her heels.
Inside the server room, cooling fans whined at maximum speed. Beatrice Vance stood before a glowing main terminal, holding a champagne-colored tablet, watching a progress bar reach 84%.
Beside her stood a towering mercenary, who immediately raised his weapon as the door swung open. Julian fired twice through the doorway; the bodyguard collapsed before he could squeeze the trigger.
Beatrice shrieked, dropping her tablet. The glass shattered across the raised flooring. She backed away toward the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean, her elegant dress now stained with rain and grime, her pristine hair ruined.
""Stay back!"" Beatrice screamed, pulling a small silver revolver from her designer coat. Her hands shook violently. ""You ruin everything, Julian! Your mother should have died twenty years ago, and Camille’s bastard child shouldn't exist!""
Elena stepped forward into the red light, ignoring the barrel pointed straight at her chest.
""Put the gun down, Beatrice,"" Elena said, her voice completely even, chilled with absolute authority. ""You're done.""
""I am the Vance family!"" Beatrice shrieked hysterically. ""You are nothing! A stray who washed dishes while I ran empires! You think some bloodline gives you the right to strip my life away?""
""You didn't build an empire,"" Julian spoke from the doorway, his weapon lowered, knowing Beatrice was already beaten. ""You embezzled three hundred million dollars, bankrupted three shipping subsidiaries, and paid off hitmen to hunt an innocent child.""
Elena stepped closer, staring Beatrice down until the barrel was only inches from her face. ""Pull the trigger if you have the nerve. But look at me first. I look just like my mother, don't I?""
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Beatrice looked into Elena’s hazel eyes. The resemblance was uncanny, almost ghostly. Beatrice’s hand trembled so violently the revolver clicked against the glass window.
Down below, the sound of federal police sirens echoed across the harbor.
