Chapter 2 - The Man Inside the Hotel
Bastion pushed Beatrice behind him.
The elevator doors separated.
No one stood inside.
Only a wheelchair.
Beatrice stared at it.
A manila folder rested on the seat.
“Don't touch it,” Bastion said.
“That instruction has never worked particularly well on me.”
“I've noticed.”
He signaled to two guards.
They checked the elevator.
Empty.
No explosives.
No person.
The folder was addressed to Beatrice.
Inside was a photocopy of an old death certificate.
The name meant nothing to her.
THOMAS REED.
Death: six years earlier.
Cause: accidental drowning.
Occupation: senior accountant, Mercer Logistics.
Beatrice looked at Bastion.
“You knew him.”
His silence answered.
“What happened?”
“He stole from me.”
“How much?”
“Nothing.”
“That seems like a strange definition of theft.”
“He copied internal financial records and disappeared.”
“And then drowned?”
“Three weeks later.”
Beatrice examined the certificate.
A handwritten number appeared in the margin.
Again.
“Who identified his body?”
“Victor.”
Bastion's cousin.
One of the seven.
Beatrice looked toward him.
“And you believed him?”
“At the time.”
That phrase carried six years of regret.
They spent the next hour searching hotel architectural records.
Room 1708 truly did not exist.
At least officially.
The seventeenth floor had been renovated years earlier, combining three suites into two larger ones.
But the original blueprints showed something else.
A service room.
Sealed behind a wall.
Beatrice tapped the plan.
“There.”
Bastion studied it.
A narrow maintenance corridor ran between suites 1706 and 1710.
At the end was the original room 1708.
“Why seal it?” she asked.
“I didn't.”
They took the private elevator down.
Bastion insisted on four armed men.
Beatrice complained about all four.
Nobody listened.
Behind a decorative panel between the suites, they found an old electronic lock.
The key card worked.
Inside was darkness.
Dust covered the floor.
A desk stood against the wall.
On it sat an obsolete computer.
Beatrice approached.
The monitor was already on.
One sentence glowed across the screen.
WELCOME BACK, MR. MERCER.
Bastion stopped.
“I've never been here.”
Beatrice sat.
The computer contained accounting files.
Thousands.
She opened the oldest.
Transactions dated six years earlier.
Thomas Reed's name appeared repeatedly.
“He wasn't stealing,” Beatrice whispered.
“What?”
“He was auditing.”
The files showed Reed tracking small irregularities.
Different companies.
Different amounts.
But the same pattern Beatrice had discovered.
Twenty-three entities.
The scheme had existed for at least six years.
“Your forty million didn't disappear recently,” she said. “Someone has been building this for years.”
Bastion leaned closer.
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
She opened Reed's final memo.
IF BASTION SEES THIS, TELL HIM VICTOR ISN'T—
The sentence ended.
File corrupted.
Bastion went still.
“Your cousin identified Reed's body,” Beatrice said.
“Yes.”
“And Reed's last message mentioned Victor.”
“Yes.”
“You want to tell me something?”
“No.”
“Wonderful partnership.”
“We aren't partners.”
Beatrice looked at him.
“Then stop standing over my shoulder.”
He moved half an inch.
She nearly laughed.
Then another file opened automatically.
A video.
Thomas Reed appeared.
Alive.
Older than the photograph on the death certificate.
The recording date was two months ago.
Beatrice's breath caught.
Thomas looked directly into the camera.
“If you're watching this, the contingency failed.”
Bastion stepped forward.
Thomas continued.
“Bastion, the money isn't the objective. You are.”
Static.
“The twenty-three companies belong to one network. Someone inside your organization has spent years making you appear responsible for transactions you never authorized.”
Beatrice whispered, “A frame.”
Thomas nodded on-screen as though answering her.
“When the final transfer occurs, federal investigators will find everything.”
Bastion's expression hardened.
“Who?”
Thomas looked frightened.
“The person responsible sits closer to you than anyone suspects.”
The screen flickered.
Then a photograph appeared.
Seven people around a conference table.
Bastion.
Victor.
Marcus.
Adrian.
Evelyn.
Daniel.
Samuel.
One face had been crossed out.
Thomas Reed's.
Beatrice leaned toward the monitor.
At the bottom was a handwritten sentence.
ONE OF THE SEVEN ORDERED MY DEATH.
Behind them, the sealed door slammed shut.
The electronic lock clicked.
Beatrice turned.
The lights died.
Then a man's voice came through the darkness.
“Mr. Mercer?”
Bastion reached for his weapon.
The voice came again.
But this time Beatrice recognized it.
May you like
It belonged to her boss.
Howard Kline.
