Chapter 15
My world tilts on its axis. Because that’s my name.
The words are so simple, so utterly absurd and yet delivered with such profound certainty, that my mind refuses to process them. Jasper Wolfe. The name on the arrest report. The name in the news articles. The name I screamed in the throes of an orgasm.
A lie.
All of it. A carefully constructed identity he wears like a suit, and now, apparently, has discarded.
He holds the door open, his expression unchanged, waiting for me to enter the room where my former enemies sit.
My feet feel like lead, but my body moves, a puppet on strings he doesn't even have to bother pulling anymore.
I step over the threshold into the main conference room, and the world I know ceases to exist.
The room is a symphony of quiet, expensive power. A long, polished mahogany table dominates the space, surrounded by a dozen high-backed leather chairs. The ever-present wall of glass offers a panoramic view of the city, a backdrop that renders everything inside small and insignificant.
But it’s the men at the table who hold my attention.
There are five of them, all in their fifties and sixties, all wearing immaculate, dark suits that probably cost as much as my old car.
Their faces are a gallery of grim, barely concealed terror.
These are the titans of Meridian Technologies.
Arthur Vance, the CEO whose smug face I’ve seen in press photos.
The CFO, the COO—the entire executive board.
These are men who move markets with a single phone call, men who are accustomed to commanding respect, to wielding power.
In this room, they look like lambs awaiting the slaughter. Their faces are pale, their postures rigid, and a sheen of sweat is visible on more than one brow. They are not looking at me. Their eyes are fixed on the man who just entered behind me.
He lets the heavy door swing shut behind us, the soft, final click echoing in the tense silence.
He doesn't take a seat. He doesn't invite me to.
He simply moves to the head of the table, placing his hands on the back of the empty chair there, his presence instantly dominating the room.
I am left standing awkwardly near the door, an accessory, a witness.
I feel my own skin prickle with the thick, palpable fear that saturates the air.
“Gentlemen,” he begins, his voice a low, calm rumble that holds no warmth at all. It is the voice of a judge about to pronounce a sentence. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. I trust your journey was… untroubled.”
The subtext is clear. I could have made it troubled if I wanted to.
Arthur Vance, a man with a mane of silver hair and a face used to projecting authority, seems to find a sliver of his courage. He clears his throat. “Donovan,” he says, the name tasting like poison in his mouth. “We had an agreement.”
“Yes, we did, Arthur,” Jasper replies, his voice dangerously smooth.
“An agreement that you have flagrantly, and I might add, stupidly, violated. I paid you a substantial amount of money for a controlling interest in your company’s sensitive data division.
A quiet, off-the-books acquisition. You took the money.
And then, you failed to deliver the access keys. ”
“The board had a change of heart,” another man, the CFO, mumbles, his eyes fixed on the polished surface of the table.
“A change of heart,” Donovan repeats, the words dripping with derision.
He lets go of the chair and begins to pace, a slow, predatory circle around the head of the table.
“You are on exceptionally thin ice. All of you. You seem to be operating under the misapprehension that our transaction was a negotiation. It was not. It was a directive. I gave you an opportunity to walk away from your crumbling company with your pockets full and your dignity intact. A benevolent offer, considering I could have simply crushed you.”
He stops pacing and leans forward, placing his palms flat on the table, his knuckles white.
The men flinch. “I want what I paid for. Now. No more delays. No more excuses. You will transfer the full administrative credentials to my server by the end of the day. If you do not, there will be… a price to pay.”
The silence that follows is so profound I can hear the frantic, thready beat of my own heart. This is beyond any corporate negotiation I have ever witnessed. This is a shakedown. This is the language of the mob, dressed up in a thousand-dollar suit.
Arthur Vance, to my horror, pushes his chair back and stands. He is a fool. A brave, stupid, dead fool.
“This is outrageous,” Vance says, his voice trembling but defiant.
“We are not some back-alley operation, Donovan. We are a publicly traded company with a fiduciary duty to our shareholders. Market conditions changed. The value of the data increased. We are within our rights to reconsider the terms. We are allowed to change our minds.”
Jasper doesn’t move. He just watches Vance, his expression placid, almost bored. He lets the man ramble, lets him build his flimsy legal argument, his recitation of corporate responsibilities and contractual loopholes. He lets him dig his own grave with a silver spoon.
I watch, frozen, a part of my lawyer’s brain agreeing with Vance’s logic, while every primal instinct screams at the man to shut up and sit down.
When Vance finally runs out of steam, his chest heaving, Jasper straightens up. He looks at the CEO with an expression of profound pity, the way a scientist might look at a laboratory animal that has just failed a simple test.
“You’re right, Arthur,” he says softly. “You are allowed to change your mind.”
And in one smooth, fluid, impossibly fast motion, he reaches inside his suit jacket. He does not pull out a phone or a folder. He pulls out a gun. A sleek, black, semi-automatic pistol, fitted with a suppressor.
My breath hitches in my throat. It is not a scream. It isn't even a gasp. It is a small, sharp intake of air, the sound of a life ending.
There is no dramatic standoff. No final words. Before Arthur Vance can even process what is happening, before his defiant expression can curdle into fear, Jasper raises the gun and fires.
The sound is not the loud bang I expect from movies.
It is a dull, wet thwump. A flat, ugly, intimate sound that is somehow worse than an explosion.
A small, perfect, black hole appears in the center of Arthur Vance’s forehead.
His eyes go wide with a final, terminal surprise.
A fine spray of red mist and gray matter paints the glass wall behind him.
He collapses backward, not forward, a puppet with its strings cut. His chair tips over with him, and his body hits the plush carpet with a heavy, sickening thud.
The scream trapped in my throat dies before it can be born.
A choked, strangled sound escapes my lips as I stumble backward, my hand flying to my mouth.
My back hits the cool, solid wall of the conference room.
My legs give out. I don't fall; I slide, slumping to the floor, my entire body a trembling, useless collection of disconnected limbs.
I stare, my mind a blank, white canvas of pure, undiluted horror.
The body. The blood, a dark, spreading stain on the cream-colored carpet.
The coppery, metallic smell that is already beginning to fill the air.
The other four men at the table are frozen, their faces masks of abject terror.
One of them makes a small, retching sound.
Jasper doesn't even look at the body. He looks at the remaining executives, his face completely devoid of emotion. He is a machine that has just performed its designated function.
“As I said,” he continues, his voice as calm and steady as if he was just interrupted by a waiter, “you were allowed to change your minds. But choices have consequences.”
He places the gun gently on the table, the black metal a stark, obscene object on the polished wood.
“This was your last chance. I tried to be benevolent.
I tried to do this cleanly. But one of you, I don't yet know which, decided to leak my civilian name, my… recreational identity, to the authorities. You had me arrested on bullshit charges, hoping to sideline me. It was an amusing, if profoundly misguided, attempt to gain leverage.”
He picks up a water glass and takes a slow, deliberate sip.
“That problem,” he says, setting the glass down, “has been handled. As has the witness who recanted. As has Mr. Vance’s dissent.
” He looks at each of the remaining men in turn, his gaze lingering for a cold, terrifying moment on each of them.
“So let me be perfectly clear about the new terms. This is now a hostile takeover.
Your company, as of this moment, is mine.
You will facilitate the transfer of all assets, all credentials, all control, without question or delay.
And if I hear so much as a whisper of this, if another problem arises, if my name appears anywhere it shouldn't… I will not just handle you. I will handle your families. Your wives, your children, your grandchildren. I will wipe your entire bloodline from the face of the earth. Do you understand me?”
They don't speak. They just nod, small, jerky, terrified movements.
“Good,” he says. He picks up the gun and tucks it back into a holster hidden inside his jacket. He straightens his tie. Business concluded.
And then, for the first time since he pulled the trigger, he seems to remember I am there.
He looks over at me, huddled in a pathetic, shaking heap on the floor against the wall.
A small frown, a flicker of annoyance, crosses his face.
I am a loose end. A messy detail in his otherwise clean execution.
He walks over to me, his expensive shoes silent on the carpet.
He reaches down and grabs my upper arm, his grip like steel.
He pulls me to my feet. My legs are jelly, unable to support my own weight.
I would have collapsed again if he wasn't holding me up.
I am in shock, my mind completely detached from my body.
I can't feel the floor beneath my feet. All I can see is Arthur Vance’s dead, surprised eyes.
“Don’t look,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost gentle. He turns me away from the grisly scene, pulling me toward the door.
I don’t fight him. I can’t. I am a doll, limp and unresisting, in his grasp. He pulls the conference room door open and leads me out into the hallway, leaving the four terrified executives in the room with their dead colleague.
He doesn't let go of my arm. He half-drags, half-supports me down the hall. His secretary, Katherine, is standing near her desk. Her face is a mask of perfect, professional calm. She doesn't even glance at me.
“Katherine,” Jasper says, his voice returning to that of a normal, busy executive. “Get the asset recovery team to the main conference room. We had a… spill. And handle the rest of the gentlemen.”
“Yes, Mr. Donovan,” she says, her voice utterly placid.
Before she has even finished speaking, two men in identical dark suits, both equipped with earpieces, are already moving past us, heading for the conference room.
They move with a silent, terrifying efficiency.
One of them carries a large, hard-sided case.
They don't look surprised or alarmed. They look like janitors on their way to mop up a mess.
Because that’s what this is to them. A mess. A routine cleanup. This isn’t an anomaly. This is a Tuesday.
My stomach heaves. The world goes gray at the edges. The last thing I hear before the darkness takes me is his voice, a low curse of irritation, as he catches my fainting body in his arms.