Chapter 4 - The Ghost of Unit Four
The heavy mahogany doors of the penthouse suite locked behind us with a satisfying, airtight click. The cavernous living room offered a panoramic view of the glittering Manhattan skyline, but tonight, the neon lights of Fifth Avenue looked less like a beacon of success and more like a trap closing in.
I poured two fingers of neat bourbon into a heavy crystal glass, downed half of it in one burning gulp, and slammed the glass onto the marble bar.
"Talk," I commanded, crossing my arms. "Start with who you really are, and end with what happened to my father."
Grace walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out into the night sky before turning back to face me. She reached up, unpinned the small white hotel cap from her dark hair, and let her locks tumble down past her shoulders. The transformation was subtle, yet it instantly stripped away any remaining illusion of her being a menial hotel worker.
"My name is Elena Vance," she said steadily. "Call sign Viper. Twenty years ago, your father, Richard Witmore, wasn't just a real estate mogul. He was the founder and primary financier of Unit Four—a shadow-net intelligence and tactical intervention unit operating under the direct command of the Department of Defense's black budget."
I stared at her, my mind struggling to reconcile the image of my silver-haired, stern father sitting behind a mahogany desk reviewing architectural blueprints with that of a black-ops commander.
"My father was a businessman," I scoffed.
"Your father was a survivor," Elena corrected sharply, stepping closer. "When UnitFour was decommissioned twenty-five years ago after a botched operation in Eastern Europe, the high command ordered every operative eliminated to tie up loose ends. Your father used his wealth, his real estate empire, and a network of shell corporations to fake our deaths, hide us, and protect us. In exchange, we protected him."
Elena reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, metallic silver flash drive, placing it gently on the bar top.
"What is that?" I asked, eyeing the device.
"That is the insurance policy your father prepared the week before he was murdered," Elena said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "It contains the names, bank accounts, and operational manifests of the syndicate that ordered his assassination. And the person who spearheaded the hit isn't some faceless cartel—it's sitting right inside your inner circle, Daniel."
My blood ran cold. "My inner circle? Who?"
"Think about who gained the most control over Witmore Real Estate's board of directors right after your father died," Elena said, her eyes boring into mine. "Think about who brokered the merger between your company and the Reyes shipping syndicate."
The pieces clicked together in my head with the terrifying force of a falling safe.
Arthur Reyes. Bianca’s father.
For two years, Arthur had been systematically buying up distressed Witmore shares, positioning himself to take a hostile majority stake in our company. And tonight’s engagement party wasn't just a celebration of love—it was the final legal trap designed to merge our assets under Arthur’s absolute control, leaving me as a figurehead CEO waiting for a convenient 'accident.'
"Arthur..." I breathed, my fists clenching so tight my knuckles turned white.
Before I could process the betrayal, the smart-home security panel near the foyer beeped frantically. A red warning light flashed across the digital display.
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Elena was moving before the beep had even finished. In one fluid motion, she drew a compact, suppressed Glock 19 from a concealed holster beneath her maid's apron—a weapon she must have smuggled past hotel security.
"Get down!" Elena hissed, lunging across the room and tackling me to the floor behind the heavy leather sofa as a barrage of high-velocity rounds shattered the panoramic glass windows, showering the penthouse in a lethal storm of sparkling glass.
