Chapter 17 - Ghost Protocol
The executive elevator plunged fifty stories straight down to the building's private subterranean parking garage, where the hum of high-voltage industrial generators drowned out the distant sirens echoing above.
Marco slumped against the mirrored wall of the car, clutching his bleeding chest, his breath coming in ragged, wet gasps. Even with a bullet in his lung, the venom in his gaze burned bright. He wheezed that killing him would change nothing; the High Commission was a hydra with dozens of heads, and the moment his heartbeat flatlined, an automated kill order would trigger across every major syndicate cell on the continent.
The elevator doors chimed and slid open. Beatrice was already waiting, standing beside a stolen armored transport van with a shotgun resting casually across her arm. Lily was buckled safely in the reinforced passenger seat, wearing heavy noise-canceling headphones to block out the violence of our world.
Beatrice didn't hesitate. She stepped forward, ripped the heavy gold signet ring from Marco's bloody hand, and handed it to Matteo. That ring contained the physical hardware encryption key that unlocked the High Commission's central digital mainframe—the master repository holding twenty years of federal bribes, dirty banking routes, and blackmail files on every corrupt politician in Washington.
We tied Marco to a structural pillar in the damp basement, connecting the hardware key to Matteo's rugged military laptop. Within minutes, the firewall crumbled under the decryption sequence. We were looking at the entire architecture of American underworld corruption: billions in laundered drug money, offshore accounts funding private mercenary armies, and the personal contracts signed by every boss in the country.
Matteo looked up at me, his eyes dark with understanding. He told me we could use these files to seize absolute control of the Commission. We could force every boss to bow down, install ourselves as the undisputed rulers of the underworld, and become wealthier than kings.
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I looked at Beatrice, whose face was illuminated by the flashing yellow emergency lights of the garage. I looked at the innocent little girl sitting in the van, drawing pictures with crayons while men died for pieces of paper.
I told Matteo to upload the unredacted files directly to every major news outlet, federal prosecutor, and foreign intelligence agency on earth. We weren't going to rule the empire. We were going to burn the throne to ash.
