Chapter 4 - Midnight Run
The rain was coming down in heavy sheets over the metropolitan skyline as Julian sped down the deserted avenues in his black SUV. Marcus had already dispatched a tactical team to Arthur Vance’s office, but Julian couldn't sit still behind bulletproof glass while the ghosts of his wife’s past were being hunted down.
Julian arrived at the historic brownstone building that housed Vance’s legal practice. Flashing red and blue lights were nowhere to be found—Marcus’s men had secured the perimeter silently, keeping the incident away from public eyes for now.
Stepping through the heavy brass doors of the lobby, Julian smelled the sharp scent of ozone and wet plaster. Upstairs, the oak door to Vance’s private suite hung off its hinges. The office was ransacked. Filing cabinets had been pried open with crowbars, legal folders carpeted the floor like autumn leaves, and the wall safe behind a portrait of Justice stood empty and gaping.
""Where is he?"" Julian demanded, his voice echoing in the ruined room.
Marcus emerged from the adjoining private washroom, stripping off a pair of black latex gloves. His expression was grim. ""Paramedics took him out through the service freight five minutes ago. He's alive, Julian, but barely. Blunt force trauma to the skull. Whoever hit him wanted the paper files, not just digital drives.""
Julian knelt by the desk, his eyes catching a faint smear of blood across the polished edge of the blotter. Beneath the mahogany leg of the heavy desk, half-hidden under the rug, lay a crumpled piece of cream-colored parchment. Julian picked it up, unfolding it carefully.
It was a bank ledger slip stamped with a Swiss crest, bearing Clara's maiden name—and an unauthorized co-signer dated just two weeks ago. But the name penned in crisp black ink was neither Victoria nor Arthur Vance.
It was a name Julian had never expected to see: Gregory Sinclair.
Julian felt the ground give way beneath his feet. Gregory was his estranged older brother, a man who had vanished from the family business eight years ago after a disastrous embezzlement scandal. Julian had believed Gregory was living in exile in South America.
""Marcus,"" Julian whispered, his fingers trembling slightly as he stared at the signature. ""Check the flight manifests for private airfields around the city over the last seventy-two hours.""
Marcus looked up from his tablet, his eyes widening. ""Boss, a Gulfstream registered to a Panamanian shell company landed at the municipal airfield yesterday afternoon. The passenger list was redacted, but the flight cleared customs with diplomatic clearance.""
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Julian stood up, the puzzle pieces suddenly locking into a terrifying picture. Victoria was never the mastermind; she was just the inside agent, a glamorous front hired to dismantle Julian’s household from within.
Just then, Julian’s phone vibrated violently. It was an incoming video alert from his penthouse security system. The screen flared to life, showing the private penthouse corridor: the elevator doors opened, and three men dressed in private courier uniforms stepped out carrying concealed weapons, directly approaching his front door.
