“Somebody pumped eight hundred parts per million of **synthetic carbon monoxide** through her cabin filtration system.”
“Hoping she would suffer an ‘accidental’ cardiac arrest on the mountain curve before eight-thirty.”
Carter Holbrook let out an un-human, feral wail from the bottom of his lungs.
The sixty-two-year-old corporate titan lunged across the walnut table, his hands hooked into claws, his silk tie flying over his shoulder, aiming directly for the titanium key in my hand:
“GIVE IT TO ME!
THAT KEY CARRIES THE ENCRYPTED LEDGER!
WITHOUT THAT KEY, THE ZURICH CLEARINGHOUSE WILL FREEZE MY ASSETS IN TWENTY MINUTES!”
*CLACK.
*
Carter never cleared the table.
From the hallway behind me, the sound of eight-inch combat boots striking the polished concrete floorboards echoed with concussive, military authority:
*STOMP.
STOMP.
STOMP.
*
Stepping through the shattered frame of the double doors, moving with that fluid, terrifying, synchronized velocity of an active-duty federal tactical stack…
