Chapter 8 - The Mexican Standoff
Marcus stared at the glowing screen of my phone, his smug confidence faltering for a fraction of a second.
“What is this?” Marcus hissed, taking a step toward me.
“This is mutually assured destruction, Marcus,” I said, keeping my voice perfectly level.
I explained that Carter was holding a flare directly above Nicole’s gasoline-soaked head.
“If you detonate the bomb under my son, Nicole burns alive, and I will personally put a bullet in your chest before you leave this room,” I promised.
Brandon, who had followed us into the VIP lounge, backed away in absolute horror.
“Marcus, what is she talking about? What bomb?” Brandon stammered, clearly out of his depth.
Marcus ignored him, glaring at me with pure, unfiltered hatred.
“Nicole is a disposable asset, Madison,” Marcus laughed coldly.
“You really think I care if you burn my mistress when three billion dollars is on the line?”
Brandon gasped, the realization finally breaking through his thick skull.
“Mistress? You told me Nicole was just using you for insider information!” Brandon yelled at Marcus.
“You are a moron, Brandon, you were simply the pen we used to sign the forged documents,” Marcus spat back.
I watched the two traitors turn on each other, just as I had calculated.
While Marcus was distracted by Brandon’s pathetic outrage, I subtly pressed a sequence of buttons on my phone.
I transmitted the audio recording of their entire conversation directly to the ballroom’s main sound system downstairs.
Every investor, board member, and journalist was currently listening to Marcus confess to fraud, extortion, and attempted murder.
“Give me the master keys right now, or I press the detonator,” Marcus demanded, pulling a small remote from his tuxedo pocket.
My heart hammered against my ribs, knowing I was out of leverage if he truly didn't care about Nicole.
“Fine,” I conceded, reaching into my clutch and pulling out the encrypted titanium flash drive.
I tossed it onto the glass coffee table between us.
Marcus smiled, a sickening look of complete victory washing over his face.
He reached down to grab the drive, lowering his guard completely.
I dropped to one knee, pulled the tactical sidearm from my thigh holster, and aimed it directly at his kneecap.
I pulled the trigger without a single ounce of hesitation.
The silenced gunshot made a dull thud, and Marcus collapsed to the floor, screaming in absolute agony.
Brandon screamed like a child, dropping to the floor and covering his head.
I walked over, kicked the detonator out of Marcus's trembling hand, and picked up my flash drive.
“It’s over, Marcus,” I said, looking down at the pathetic, bleeding man.
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Suddenly, the heavy velvet doors of the VIP lounge were violently kicked open.
A squad of armed men in tactical gear rushed into the room, their assault rifles raised.
