Chapter 9 - The Hidden Feed
Outside the bungalow, the guards began smashing the remaining glass panels of the French doors with tactical batons. Shards of glass rained down onto the carpet like hail. Marcus was shouting from the patio, swinging his tire iron to keep two other security guards from flanking the entrance.
Daniel didn't have time to retrieve a computer. He snatched the two micro-SD cards, jammed them into the protective case of his phone, and slipped them into his inner pocket. Then, he spotted Clara’s daily planner resting on the edge of the desk.
He flipped it open. On the page dated two days ago, Clara’s handwriting grew erratic, the ink pressed deep into the paper with trembling tension:
E. came by again at 2 PM. She brought the ginger tea herself. Said she wanted to make peace before the gala. Tasted metallic, like copper wire. An hour later, intense cramping started. When I confronted her, she smiled and whispered: 'No child of yours will ever inherit a single penny of my father’s trust.' I'm hiding the backup drive behind the nursery baseboard. If something happens to me, Daniel, don't let them take our son.
Daniel’s chest tightened so violently he could barely draw air. Eleanor hadn't just paid the chef; she had personally delivered the poisoned tea. She had looked Clara in the eyes, smiled, and handed her the chemical cocktail meant to trigger the death of her unborn grandchild.
A heavy boot shattered the French door's wood frame, and Vance lunged into the room, reaching for Daniel's collar.
Daniel didn't retreat. Channeled by pure, unadulterated fury, he stepped inside the guard's reach, driving his elbow upward into Vance’s chin with bone-crushing force. Vance’s head snapped back, his eyes rolling upward as he collapsed heavily onto the broken glass.
The second guard froze in the doorway, staring in disbelief at the bloodied, unhinged Sterling heir.
""Get out of my way,"" Daniel said, his voice dropping into a guttural whisper that carried a promise of absolute violence.
The guard stepped aside.
Daniel walked out into the rain, pulling Marcus away from the perimeter. ""We have what we need. Move!""
They threw themselves back into the pickup truck, the tires spinning wildly against the wet grass before catching traction on the asphalt driveway. As they crashed through the wrought-iron gates into the safety of the public street, Daniel looked up at the main mansion.
Standing on the second-floor master balcony, shielded from the rain by an ornate limestone arch, stood Arthur and Eleanor Sterling. Eleanor held a delicate porcelain teacup, watching her son flee into the night, her face utterly expressionless.
Marcus wiped blood from a cut above his eyebrow, gasping for breath as he steered the truck toward the city. ""Where do we take it? We can't trust LAPD internal affairs if Arthur owns the commissioner.""
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Daniel pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over a contact he hadn't spoken to in seven years—his former commanding officer from the military, now the Assistant Special Agent in Charge at the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Los Angeles Field Office.
""We go federal,"" Daniel said, staring into the dark street ahead. ""Attempted murder, domestic terrorism, and wire fraud involving interstate trust funds. Arthur can buy the city. He can't buy the Department of Justice.""
