Chapter 7 - Inside The Secure Vehicle
The interior of Adrian’s unmarked SUV smelled of aged leather, black coffee, and rain. As I slid into the passenger seat, the heavy doors locked automatically with a muffled thud. Adrian didn't waste time with small talk; his gaze dropped immediately to my hand, where I held the small black flash drive like a weapon. He slotted the drive into a secure port on the dashboard console, and a series of encrypted files flickered to life on the navigation screen.
"Did anyone see you?" Adrian asked, his hands resting lightly on the steering wheel as he pulled smoothly away from the curb and merged into the dense downtown traffic.
"Only Maya. She gave me the local terminal backup before their IT department scrubbed the main servers," I replied, leaning forward to watch as the high-definition footage began to play on the screen.
The video showed the VIP balcony in crystal-clear detail. We watched the timestamp tick upward toward the moment of the crash. From this elevated angle, the malicious intent was undeniable. The footage showed Preston Hale leaning over the brass railing, his face contorted in a sneer as he tracked Isabella moving across the floor below. We watched his arm pull back, muscles tensing beneath the white tuxedo jacket, and the deliberate downward snap of his wrist as he launched the champagne bottle directly toward the spot where my niece was standing. There was no hesitation, no accidental slip, and no clumsy stumble. It was a calculated, vicious act aimed at terrifying a child to send a message to anyone questioning his authority.
"That's assault with a deadly weapon," I whispered, the cold realization settling deep into my bones. "He wasn't just throwing a tantrum. He was trying to hurt her to get to me."
"And the metadata on this file proves it hasn't been altered," Adrian said, his voice dropping into a register of quiet, lethal fury. He pulled the vehicle into a private subterranean parking garage beneath a federal office building, cutting the engine. He turned to me, his dark eyes softening slightly as he reached out to gently touch my uninjured arm. "We have what we need, Lena. The federal investigator handling the foundation embezzlement case is on the eighth floor. Are you ready to walk through those doors?"
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I looked down at the scratch on my forearm—a fading red mark from the shattered glass—and then back up at Adrian's steady, unyielding gaze. For the first time in years, I didn't feel like I was fighting alone.
"Let's go," I said, opening the door.
