CHAPTER 9: The Encryption Key
The distorted voice echoed through the armored cabin of the Maybach, sending a fresh wave of ice water through my veins.
"Who is this?" I demanded, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white. "Identify yourself."
The caller let out a low, chilling chuckle. "You're holding the answer in your left hand, Elena. Look closer at the inner rim of that pocket watch. There’s a serial number stamped into the brass. That’s the decryption key for the entire server network back at the firm. The men chasing you don't want your father—they want the encryption keys to the Swiss accounts, and they know your husband gave them to you before he lost his nerve."
"Adrian didn't give me anything," I shot back, my voice laced with venom. "He spent fifteen years lying to my face, embezzling from my father's trust, and plotting with a corporate spy to strip away my entire inheritance!"
"Oh, sweet, naive Elena," the voice replied, sounding almost amused. "Adrian was never the mastermind. He was just a pawn pushed onto the board to keep you distracted while the real work was being done right under your nose. Do you honestly think an intern like Tessa had the clearance to access the primary vault on her own? She didn't work for Vance. She worked for the man who hired Adrian in the first place."
The dashboard screen flickered, pulling up a personnel file from the firm's HR database.
A photograph flashed on the screen. It wasn't Adrian. It wasn't Marcus.
It was David Vance—not the tactical operative currently chasing me on the highway, but the senior partner’s own son, David Vance Jr., who had supposedly died in a mountaineering accident in the Alps five years ago.
Except the man in the photo had the exact same scar on his jaw as the mercenary shooting at us in the garage.
"He's your stepbrother, Elena," the anonymous voice whispered softly. "And your father stole every single penny of his mother's estate to launch this firm. He isn't chasing you for money. He's chasing you for revenge."
Before I could ask another question, the call dropped, replaced by a high-pitched screech of static.
Behind me, the headlights of the pursuing SUVs suddenly flared brighter. In the rearview mirror, I watched as the lead vehicle accelerated aggressively, its front bumper slamming violently into the rear quarter-panel of the Maybach.
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The heavy armored car shuddered violently under the impact, tires screaming as I fought to keep control at ninety miles per hour on the dark interstate.
The dashboard navigation system flashed a new warning: Tire pressure critical. Rear-left casing compromised.
