Chapter 4 - The House of Cards
The main security hub of the Ashcombe estate looked like something out of a federal intelligence agency. Wall-to-wall monitors displayed live feeds of every perimeter fence, corridor, and hidden entrance across the five-acre property, alongside encrypted data streams tracking regional police scanners and dark-web chatter.
Roman strode into the room like a general marching toward an execution ground, his black suit jacket blowing slightly behind him. Claire followed closely behind, leaning heavily on a cane Victor had fetched for her, refusing to stay behind in the medical suite while Salem General doctors were turning up dead.
On the central screen, two battered men were tied to heavy steel chairs in the estate’s secure holding cell three floors below. Their faces were bruised, their clothes stained with drywall dust and blood from their botched raid on Claire’s apartment.
"Talk again," Roman commanded, his voice echoing through the audio speakers of the interrogation room. "Start from the beginning. Who ordered Dr. Christopher's elimination?"
The larger of the two men—a scarred ex-mercenary with the wolf crest tattooed proudly on his right forearm—lifted his swollen head. He laughed, a wet, rattling sound.
"You think you're so smart, Hale," the mercenary spat, blood hitting the concrete floor. "You think you're the smartest man in Chicago because you write code that runs half the stock market. But you're sleeping with the guillotine."
Roman didn't raise his voice. He didn't signal for Victor to use force. He simply walked over to the secondary console, typed a twelve-digit override code, and tapped the screen.
"Facial recognition match: Marcus Vance," Roman’s synthesized computer voice announced coldly. "Cross-referencing encrypted offshore wire transfers from Vance Industries to Blackwood Security Contractors."
The mercenary's smile instantly vanished. His eyes widened in absolute terror as the monitor displayed a series of bank receipts totaling five hundred thousand dollars, wired directly from Evelyn Vance’s personal trust account to the mercenary's Swiss holding firm just four hours ago.
"How... how did you get that?" the mercenary choked out.
"My mother taught me to never trust a system I didn't build myself," Roman said smoothly, leaning toward the intercom microphone. "Evelyn thinks she can use my own security network to clean up her messes. But every camera, every router, and every server in this city passes through a proprietary firewall that only I control. She didn't cover her tracks. She just left footprints in wet cement."
Claire stood behind Roman, watching the sheer, terrifying brilliance of his mind at work. In less than an hour, he had dismantled a half-million-dollar conspiracy using code and cold calculation.
"What about Dr. Christopher?" Claire asked, stepping closer to the mic. "Did he leave anything behind before they killed him?"
The mercenary swallowed hard, realizing he had no bargaining chips left. "He... he knew they were coming. Before he took the poison—or before they forced it down his throat—he sent an encrypted package to a safety deposit box at the First National Bank downtown. He said if he didn't check in by midnight tonight, the box would automatically unlock and forward its contents to the federal prosecutor's office."
Roman’s gray eyes flashed with sudden realization. "What’s in the safety deposit box?"
"The original audio logs," the mercenary whispered. "The real recordings from the hospital room where Eleanor Hale died. The ones where Evelyn tells the doctor to increase the potassium drip while Eleanor is sleeping."
Claire’s breath caught in her throat. The actual, undeniable smoking gun.
Roman straightened up, his face set in absolute determination. He turned to Victor, who was standing by the door with a submachine gun slung over his shoulder.
"Secure these two in the bunker," Roman ordered crisply. "Double the perimeter guards. No one enters or leaves this estate without my biometric authorization."
"Where are you going, Boss?" Victor asked, his hand dropping to his sidearm.
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Roman pulled his leather driving gloves on, his fingers flexing against the soft calfskin.
"I'm going to pay a visit to my fiancée," Roman said, his voice dropping into a dark, glacial register. "And then we're going to the bank."
