Chapter 11 - The Queen's Gambit
Stepping into the boardroom was not a team of corporate lawyers, nor was it the frail, dying frame of Walter Sterling.
It was Aubree Vance.
She walked with a slow, measured, rhythmic cadence, the heels of her leather boots clicking against the polished marble floor like the ticking of an executioner’s clock. The four tactical operatives flanked her, their dark armor and suppressed carbines standing in stark, terrifying contrast to the opulent, decadent decor of the room.
Marcus Sterling slammed his crystal glass down onto the obsidian table, scotch splashing violently over the dark surface. He stood up, his face contorted in a mask of sudden, furious rage.
"Who the hell allowed you past lobby security?!" Marcus roared, pointing a trembling finger at her. "Guards! Get these mercenaries out of this room immediately!"
The tactical guards didn't budge an inch. They stood like an impenetrable wall of steel between Aubree and the table.
Aubree stopped ten feet from the head of the table. She reached into her coat pocket, pulled out the small steel flash drive, and tossed it casually onto the obsidian surface. It slid across the dark glass with a sharp, metallic clink, coming to a dead stop right in front of Marcus’s coffee cup.
Marcus stared at the flash drive, his breath catching in his throat. A sudden, cold sweat broke out across his forehead. "Where... where did you get that?"
"From the man you thought you had successfully poisoned and locked away," Aubree said, her voice ringing clear, cold, and utterly devoid of mercy.
She stepped forward, placing both hands flat on the edge of the obsidian table, leaning in until her green eyes locked onto Marcus’s dilated pupils.
"My name is Aubree Vance," she said softly, every word landing like a hammer driving a nail into a coffin. "And as of twelve seconds ago, I hold fifty-one percent of the voting equity in this conglomerate."
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Marcus let out a hysterical, barking laugh, though his hands were shaking so violently he had to grip the edge of the table to steady himself. "Fifty-one percent? You're a nobody! You're a retail worker! You're a minimum-wage peasant playing dress-up with stolen hardware!"
"I was a cashier," Aubree corrected coldly. "Now, I'm your liquidator."
