Chapter 13 - The Ghost from the University
The private jet touched down at the municipal airport in Ohio under a heavy, freezing drizzle. Within twenty minutes, a convoy of three matte-black SUVs bearing Apex Imperial security insignia was racing through the familiar, rain-slicked streets of my old college town.
I sat in the back of the lead vehicle, staring out the tinted window at the decaying brick buildings and neon-lit diners that had defined the most agonizing years of my youth. Every street corner held a memory of hunger, rejection, and silent determination.
“We traced the signal of Sarah Jenkins’ phone,” Viktor reported, tapping on a secure military-grade tablet. “It originated from an abandoned industrial warehouse district near the old university rail yards—property currently owned by Sterling Capital’s residual shell corporation, now controlled by Halcyon’s domestic operations.”
“Who is running Halcyon’s domestic operations since Arthur Sterling’s downfall?” I asked, my eyes narrowing.
Viktor scrolled down the digital dossier, his expression darkening. “Jonathan Vance—no relation to Alistair or me. A ruthless corporate raider who was appointed to Halcyon’s board by Arthur Sterling’s inner circle three years ago.”
Jonathan Vance. A man I had met briefly during the patent acquisition phase—a smiling, silver-tongued executive who had praised my work while shaking my hand with cold, dead eyes.
“He’s tied to the old syndicate,” I muttered. “He’s trying to cover up whatever Sarah discovered.”
The convoy came to a smooth, silent halt outside a crumbling red-brick warehouse surrounded by rusted chain-link fences. Through the rain, a single flickering security light cast long, eerie shadows across the gravel courtyard.
“Surround the perimeter,” I ordered, pulling up the collar of my heavy wool coat. “No one enters or leaves without my permission. Viktor, you’re with me.”
We stepped out into the freezing downpour, our boots crunching against the wet gravel. Four heavily armed Apex Imperial security operatives flanked us, their tactical weapons ready.
The heavy metal side door of the warehouse was unlocked, ajar by a few inches, letting out a faint stream of yellow light and the sound of low, menacing voices inside.
I raised my hand, signaling the team to halt. I stepped forward and pushed the heavy door open with my fingertips.
Inside, the cavernous warehouse was filled with rusted machinery and towering stacks of shipping crates. In the center of the room, under a harsh halogen work light tied to a wooden beam, Sarah Jenkins was tied securely to a metal chair, her head slumped forward, her face bruised and pale.
Standing in front of her, holding a heavy steel wrench, was a burly man in a security uniform. And sitting casually on a wooden crate a few feet away, sipping a cup of coffee, was Jonathan Vance.
Jonathan looked immaculate in a tailored charcoal suit, looking completely out of place in the grimy warehouse.
“Well, well,” Jonathan sighed, taking a slow sip of his coffee and looking toward the doorway. “If it isn't our multi-billion-dollar boy genius, Daniel Mercer. We were wondering when you’d show up.”
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Sarah groaned weakly, lifting her head. “Daniel... run... it’s a trap...”
I didn't flinch. I stepped fully into the warehouse, my boots echoing off the concrete floor, Viktor and the armed guards right behind me. My expression was colder than the rain outside.
