Chapter 3 - Shadows in the East Wing
The sun dipped below the crest of the Tennessee hills, bleeding violet and bruised orange across the sky.
Inside the main study, the mahogany desk was piled high with ledger books, encrypted satellite phone logs, and the quarterly manifests of the Ashworth shipping front. Julian sat in his high-backed leather chair, the glow of a single brass desk lamp catching the sharp lines of his cheekbones.
The door opened without a knock. Marcus walked in, his composure partially recovered, though his fingers gripped the handle of his leather briefcase with a white-knuckled rigidity.
"You wanted to see me, Julian?"
Julian didn't look up from the document in front of him. It was a wire transfer record from an offshore account in the Cayman Islands—an account registered under a shell corporation that matched the exact typography of the Jefferson Street shipping permits Thomas had pushed for that afternoon.
"Close the door, Marcus."
Marcus did so, locking the heavy oak bolt with a heavy clack. "About the Jefferson Street mix-up... it was an oversight. The city council's suspension notice hadn't crossed my desk yet. Bureaucracy moves slowly, Julian."
"Bureaucracy moves slowly," Julian repeated. He finally looked up. His eyes were the color of winter river water—cold, clear, and fathomless. "And yet, Thomas had the exact same talking points. Word for word. Almost as if you two had spent last night drafting the route over drinks at the Hermitage Hotel."
Marcus didn't flinch, but his breathing shallowly quickened. "Thomas and I coordinate logistics regularly. You know that."
"I know a great many things, Marcus," Julian said, standing up from his desk. He was not a large man by brute standards, but when he moved, the room seemed to shrink around him. "I know you've been with this family for twelve years. I know my father trusted you on his deathbed. And I know that three days ago, fifty thousand dollars was wired from an account tied to Thomas’s private holdings into a Swiss bank account bearing your mother’s maiden name."
Marcus froze. The color drained entirely from his face, leaving him looking chalky and old under the brass light.
"Julian... where did you—"
"Camille’s little girl plays in the courtyard, Marcus," Julian interrupted softly, walking around the desk. "She doesn't read ledgers. But animals and children operate on a frequency we forget how to tune into. Rex knew you were lying before you even opened your mouth this afternoon. Because the last three times you met with Thomas, you didn't smell like the office. You smelled like the back room of the warehouse on 4th Avenue—where the federal indictments are being printed."
Marcus’s hand drifted toward his left armpit, where a suppressed Walther PPK rested in a shoulder holster.
May you like
It was a fraction of a second too late.
The study door didn't just open; it splintered inward as Rex slammed his full weight against it. The Malinois didn't bark this time. He hit Marcus like a freight train, driving the older man backward into the oak bookshelves with a sickening crash of falling leather-bound volumes and shattered glass.
