Chapter 8 - Confrontation
Marcus smirked, stepping closer while his two bodyguards kept their weapons trained directly on my chest.
“You always were a tedious little bureaucrat, David,” Marcus sneered. “Just like your pathetic father. He thought honesty was a virtue. He died broke and forgotten because he didn't have the stomach to rule.”
“My father died with honor,” I said, keeping my voice perfectly steady. “Something you and your father never understood.”
“Honor doesn't pay for private jets,” Marcus laughed, extending his gloved hand. “Give me the drive, David. Right now. And tell your ghost of a brother-in-law to step out of the shadows before my men spray this place with lead.”
Julian stepped out from behind the riding lawnmower, holding his pistol at his side, his posture calm and unbothered.
“You look terrible, Julian,” Marcus remarked, glancing at him with utter disgust. “Ten years hiding under floorboards and inside furniture. What a pathetic existence.”
“It was miserable,” Julian agreed softly. “But tonight, it ends.”
“Yes, it does,” Marcus sneered, signaling his bodyguards. “Kill them both. We’ll take the drive from his dead hands.”
Before the bodyguards could raise their weapons, I pulled a small remote detonator from my pocket and slammed the button.
I hadn't set off explosives—I had activated the garage’s high-powered industrial emergency floodlights and the high-decibel security siren I had installed directly above the main doors.
BLINDING, 10,000-LUMEN WHITE LIGHT EXPLODED THROUGH THE DARKNESS.
A deafening, ear-splitting 130-decibel siren roared through the garage, completely disorienting Marcus and his bodyguards. They dropped their weapons to cover their ears and shield their eyes from the agonizing glare.
In that second of total confusion, Julian and I struck.
Julian tackled the bodyguard on the left, disarming him with a swift blow to the wrist and driving him into the concrete wall.
I rushed forward, sidestepping the second bodyguard’s wild swing, slammed my shoulder into his chest, and swept his legs out from under him. He hit the concrete floor hard, his weapon spinning out of reach.
Marcus panicked. He dropped his gloved hands, pulled a small snub-nosed revolver from his trench coat, and aimed it wildly at my face.
“Die, you bastard!” Marcus screamed over the roar of the siren.
I stepped inside his guard, grabbed his wrist, and twisted it violently upward. The gun fired harmlessly into the wooden roof rafters with a loud BANG.
I drove my elbow directly into Marcus’s nose. Bone cracked, and Marcus shrieked in pain, dropping the revolver. I tripped him forward, slamming his face into the hood of my parked SUV, and twisted his arms behind his back, pinning him effortlessly against the cold metal.
I reached into my pocket, pulled out a heavy pair of zip-ties from my workshop bench, and bound his wrists tightly behind his back.
I reached up and shut off the siren, plunging the garage back into the quiet sound of falling rain.
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Marcus slumped against the car, blood pouring from his broken nose, weeping in agony and humiliation.
“It’s over, Marcus,” I whispered in his ear. “I just hit 'enter' on my phone. The FBI knows everything. Your accounts are frozen, your private jet is grounded, and your entire empire is being dismantled as we speak.”
