Chapter 7 - Suite 1201
Vance led the approach, his weapon fixed on the doorframe, sweeping his muzzle into the shadows. Charlotte followed a step behind, her hand resting on the titanium keycard in her pocket.
Inside, the suite was colossal, spanning the entire eastern wing of the twelfth floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a sweeping panorama of the city’s glittering skyline and the dark ocean beyond. But the luxury of the room had been meticulously dismantled. Bookcases were tipped forward, silk upholstery slashed open, and paintings ripped from their wall anchors.
Near the grand piano, a man sat bound to a heavy wooden armchair.
His silver hair was matted with sweat, and a tailored bespoke suit hung loose on his emaciated frame. His hands were tied behind the chair’s back with thick zip-ties, his head sagging onto his chest. Beside him, an empty glass of water had shattered against the floorboards.
“Father...?” Charlotte whispered, the word slipping past her defenses before reason could stop it.
The man groaned, his head lifting slowly. When his eyes found hers, Charlotte’s breath caught in her throat. It was not Marcus Vale.
It was Judge Jonathan Vance—the chief presiding justice of the Federal Appellate Circuit who had mysteriously vanished from public life eighteen months ago, right before he was scheduled to preside over the grand jury investigation into the Sterling family’s offshore shell corporations.
“Charlotte...?” The judge’s voice was like sandpaper grinding against stone. He blinked weakly against the dim light. “You shouldn't have come back. The hospital... they said you were dead.”
“They said a lot of things, Your Honor,” Charlotte said, kneeling beside him and pulling a utility blade from Vance’s tactical vest to slice through the zip-ties. “Arthur kept you prisoner here?”
“Not Arthur,” Judge Vance coughed, rubbing his raw, bruised wrists. “Arthur was merely the jailer. He kept me drugged, fed through an IV line, trapped in this penthouse while his partners used my forged digital signature to dismiss every single federal indictment against the maritime cartel.”
“Who is behind it?” Charlotte demanded, handing him a clean handkerchief.
Judge Vance looked up at Captain Vance, then back to Charlotte, his eyes wide with an ancient terror. “The call didn't come from a boardroom, Charlotte. It came from the Governor’s mansion. And Julian... Julian isn't Arthur’s son. He’s the Governor’s bastard.”
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Before Charlotte could absorb the revelation, the sharp whistle of incoming ordnance tore through the night air outside.
A flash-bang grenade shattered the floor-to-ceiling glass, detonating in a blinding eruption of white noise and fire.
