Chapter 9: The Missing Drive
The hum of the security console in the basement monitoring room filled the small, windowless space with an oppressive tension. On the main monitors, playback footage from the secure archive room showed a figure in a black courier jacket slipping through the fire exit with a Pelican case tucked under one arm.
"That's not one of our regular security contractors," Vincent said, leaning over the console and tapping the keyboard to zoom in on the intruder's face through the grainy night-vision lens. "Enhance the badge reflection on the steel door."
The software whirred, pixels shifting until the name badge on the courier's chest came into sharp, legible focus: Vance Holdings Logistics.
"Arthur Vance must have kept a second set of master keys before his accounts were frozen," Eleanor said, standing rigidly behind us with her arms crossed over her tailored blazer. "He's trying to salvage whatever leverage he has left to negotiate a plea deal with the federal prosecutor before the morning arraignment."
I stared at the screen, watching the shadowy figure disappear into the stairwell. A cold knot formed in my stomach. All the progress we had made in the boardroom felt suddenly fragile, built on paper that could be burned just as easily as the cottage had been five years ago. "If he destroys those logs," I said, my voice trembling slightly, "the SEC might drop the fraud charges due to insufficient physical evidence."
Vincent straightened up, his jaw set into a hard line that brooked no argument. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his car keys, tossing them toward the security guard standing near the door. "Lock down the perimeter exits. No vehicles leave the garage without a physical trunk inspection." He turned his gaze back to me, his eyes softening as he placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. "He's not getting those files out of this building, Lucia. I promise you that."
"I'm coming with you," I said firmly, stepping back to meet his gaze without flinching. "Julianna and her father destroyed my life once. I am not sitting in a secure room waiting to see if they get away with it a second time."
Vincent hesitated for a single heartbeat, then nodded once. "Stay right behind me."
We moved through the labyrinth of underground service corridors, the concrete walls damp and echoing with the distant sound of dripping water. The Sterling estate's private security team had already cordoned off the lower loading dock where the delivery trucks idled against the concrete bays. As we rounded the corner toward Bay 4, a figure in a black hoodie was frantically trying to pry open the side door of a white delivery van with a crowbar.
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"Drop the case, Arthur," Vincent's voice cut through the damp air like a whip.
The figure froze, slowly turning around to reveal not Arthur Vance, but his chief legal counsel, a slick-haired man named Miller who looked ready to bolt. The Pelican case sat on the pavement right beside his muddy loafers.
