Chapter 9 - The Invitation
By late afternoon, the secure terminal pinged with an automated update from the national wire service: our data drop had been verified by two senior investigative editors. But before we could draft our next move, my burner phone buzzed violently against the nightstand. The caller ID displayed a blocked number, but I knew who it was before I even pressed the green accept button. The air in the motel room seemed to drop ten degrees.
I slid my thumb across the screen and pressed the phone to my ear, keeping my voice entirely level. "Gideon."
"You're making a catastrophic mistake, Sloane," Gideon’s voice came through the speaker, smooth, measured, and dripping with calculated menace. There was no trace of the panic he must have felt knowing his ledgers were out in the open. He was playing the patriarch, the untouchable titan. "The police are already processing warrants for corporate espionage and grand larceny under your name. A few disgruntled journalists printing blog posts won't change the fact that you signed every major financial document in this foundation's portfolio."
"I signed them under duress, Gideon," I said, my voice steady for the first time in three years. "And the federal investigators downloading your off-shore files right now are going to see exactly how many times you used my signature without my consent."
There was a long, cold pause on the other end of the line. When Gideon spoke again, the polished veneer had cracked just enough to reveal the desperate predator underneath. "You think you can run, Sloane? You think some hired muscle with tattoos is going to shield you from the board of directors? I am the board. I am the city. And tomorrow night, at the annual charity gala at the Grand Meridian, I'm going to announce your indictment in front of five hundred civic leaders."
"I'll be there," I said quietly.
"Don't bother dressing up," Gideon hissed, and the line went dead with a sharp click.
I lowered the phone slowly, my hand trembling just slightly as I laid it back on the nightstand. Cormac was standing beside me, having listened to every word through the speaker. He didn't ask what Gideon had said; his face was a mask of cold, unyielding resolve.
May you like
"The annual gala," Cormac stated, stating it not as a question, but as a tactical inevitability. "That's where he plans to consolidate his narrative before the federal subpoenas hit his desk on Monday morning."
"It's the lion's den," I replied, looking up into his stern eyes. "If we walk through those double doors, there's no turning back."
