Chapter 3 - The Third Player
I stared at the bleeding, unconscious body of my best friend.
My entire theory had just been completely shattered into a million jagged pieces.
Marcus was not Vivienne's secret accomplice in this twisted conspiracy.
He was actually her latest victim.
I reached into the trunk and pressed my fingers desperately against his cold neck.
A weak, erratic pulse thumped faintly against my fingertips.
I pulled a tactical knife from my belt and quickly sliced through the thick plastic zip ties binding his wrists.
Marcus groaned in agony, his eyelids fluttering as the freezing rain hit his pale face.
"Adrian," he rasped, coughing violently as he struggled to sit up in the narrow trunk.
"Who did this to you, Marcus?" I demanded, helping him swing his legs over the bumper.
"It was Vivienne, but she is not working alone," he gasped, clutching his bleeding head.
He explained that he had discovered a massive financial discrepancy in my offshore holding accounts.
Vivienne had been secretly siphoning tens of millions of dollars into a private crypto wallet for the past six months.
"When I confronted her last night, a man stepped out of the shadows and hit me with a steel pipe," Marcus groaned.
"Did you see the man's face?" I asked, my grip tightening on the heavy tire iron.
"No, but he had a terrifying, massive scar running straight down the left side of his neck," Marcus replied.
The blood completely drained from my face as I recognized the description of the scarred man.
His name was Victor, and he was a ruthless cartel enforcer I had crossed paths with ten years ago in Mexico.
I had helped put his younger brother in a federal penitentiary, and Victor had sworn a brutal blood oath of revenge.
Vivienne had purposefully allied herself with my greatest, most dangerous enemy.
Taking Bruno was never just about leverage or money.
It was specifically designed to lure me out of my heavily guarded mansion and into a fatal trap.
"We have to get out of here right now, Marcus," I urged, pulling his arm over my shoulder.
Suddenly, the massive steel doors of the abandoned slaughterhouse rolled open with a deafening screech.
Blinding halogen spotlights clicked on, completely illuminating the desolate parking lot.
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A dozen heavily armed mercenaries stepped out of the building, raising automatic rifles directly at our chests.
Standing in the center of the kill squad was Victor, holding my massive mastiff by a heavy iron chain.
