Chapter 6 - The Glass Tower
An extreme close-up shot of Marcus Sterling sitting in his private suite at the Grand Hotel. He raises a white porcelain coffee mug to his cold, arrogant face, his grey eyes staring with cold menace directly toward the window as his radio crackles. The color grading shifts into high-contrast, icy cool tones.
In the second-floor tea room of the Grand Hotel, Marcus Sterling set his porcelain mug down on the saucer. The room was cold, lit only by the pale blue ambient light of three laptop screens displaying financial algorithms and land deed registry logs.
"Team leader, report," Sterling said into his lapel mic, his tone laced with mounting irritation. "Why is there no activity at stall fourteen?"
Static crackled through his earpiece. No answer.
"Team leader, respond immediately or you will be relieved of duty," Sterling growled, standing up from his leather armchair and stepping toward the floor-to-ceiling glass window overlooking the market square below.
The rain had begun to fall—a soft, cold drizzle that slicked the dark cobblestones, reflecting the red and amber neon signs of the surrounding shops.
Down in the square, Sterling saw the two dark figures of his operatives lying prone beside Martha's stall. And standing in the center of the walkway, looking directly up at the second-floor window of the Grand Hotel, was a man in a black three-piece suit.
Sterling lowered his Leica binoculars, his breath catching in his throat.
Even from a distance of two hundred yards, he recognized the face. The razor-sharp jawline. The posture of complete, unshakeable dominance.
It was Julian Vance.
Vance didn't run. He didn't hide. He raised his left hand, tapped the side of his wrist as if checking an invisible watch, and then pointed a single finger straight at Sterling's window.
Sterling's phone on the glass table rang. The ringtone was sharp, loud, and jarring in the quiet room.
Sterling turned slowly, staring at the flashing screen. The caller ID showed a secure, encrypted line from the Federal Reserve Board.
With trembling fingers, Sterling picked up the phone and pressed it to his ear.
"Sterling," he rasped.
"Marcus," Julian's voice came through the speaker, smooth as silk and cold as liquid nitrogen. "I suggest you look at your primary trading monitor."
Sterling turned his head toward the laptop screens on the table. As he watched, the green numbers on the main financial ledger began to turn bright red. Line by line, account by account, the fifty-four million dollars sitting in Apex Real Estate's Cayman holdings were being wiped out.
ACCOUNT FROZEN - ASSET SEIZURE ORDER #884-B
ACCOUNT FROZEN - ASSET SEIZURE ORDER #884-C
ACCOUNT DISSOLVED - FEDERAL MARSHAL ATTACHMENT
"What... what did you do?" Sterling breathed, his face draining of all color until he looked like a corpse in a tailored suit.
"I didn't destroy your money, Marcus," Julian replied softly over the phone line. "I returned it. To the eighty-four small business owners whose properties you illegally foreclosed on over the last five years. Mrs. Gable was simply the last name on the list."
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"You're dead, Vance!" Sterling screamed into the receiver, his composure shattering into frantic rage. "I have judges in my pocket! I have state troopers on my payroll! You can't touch me!"
"Look behind you, Marcus," Julian said, and the line went dead.
