Chapter 8: The Vanishing Act
Margaret’s head snapped toward the doorway. “Gone? What do you mean he’s gone? He was remanded without bail!”
“A transport van picked him up an hour ago,” the security chief said, pulling a tablet from his jacket and handing it to Jonathan. “
Signed by a federal judge whose signature has just been verified as a forgery. Someone high up in the judicial system is on Richard’s payroll. He’s been released.”
Jonathan took the tablet, his expression darkening into a mask of pure, lethal fury. He swiped across the screen, reviewing the transfer logs. “That arrogant fool thinks he can run. He doesn't realize that without the encryption key to the offshore accounts, he has nothing. Every single dollar he stole is locked behind digital walls that only Margaret can open.”
Margaret stepped forward, her initial shock hardening into a fierce, calculating resolve. For thirty years, she had been the invisible manager of Richard’s life, fixing his mistakes, balancing his books, and anticipating his every move. She knew how his mind worked better than anyone alive.
“He’s not running away to hide, Grandpa,” Margaret said, using the word for the first time, testing how natural it felt on her tongue.
Jonathan looked up, surprised and deeply moved by the title. “What makes you say that?”
“Because Richard is a narcissist,” Margaret explained, pacing across the Persian rug of the study. “He can’t stand losing. He won’t flee the country empty-handed. He knows the flash drive is here—or rather, he knows I have the master codes. There is only one place he would go to retrieve his hidden contingency funds before the government freezes his physical assets entirely.”
“Where?” Jonathan asked sharply.
“The old summer estate in the Hamptons,” Margaret said, her eyes narrowing. “The one he bought under a shell corporation twenty years ago using my mother’s stolen signature. There’s a physical safe in the basement study. That’s where he keeps the bearer bonds and the original deeds.”
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Jonathan stood up from his desk, walking over to a heavy iron safe built into the wall behind him. He spun the dial with practiced precision and pulled out a sleek, matte-black case containing a satellite phone and a pair of encrypted tracking devices.
“Then we set a trap,” Jonathan said, a dangerous, cold smile spreading across his face. “Let’চন্দ্রের see how brave our little auctioneer is when he walks back into the lion's den.”
