Chapter 7 - The Uninvited Guest
“Mr. Wentworth,” the man said smoothly, stepping into the room and locking the door behind him with a quiet click. “And Mrs. DuPont. Or should I say, Mrs. Wentworth? It’s truly fascinating how small the world becomes when you start digging through twenty-year-old ashes.”
I didn't hesitate. I drew my service-grade sidearm from the hidden holster beneath my jacket in one fluid motion, leveling the barrel squarely at his chest.
“Hands where I can see them, or your next breath is your last,” I growled, stepping between the intruder and Irene’s hospital bed.
The man didn't flinch. He didn’t even raise his hands. Instead, a thin, mocking smile touched the corners of his lips as he casually adjusted his cuffs.
“You can shoot me, Colonel. You’re a trained military man; your grouping will be center-mass, perfectly lethal,” the man said, his voice entirely devoid of fear. “But before your finger squeezes that trigger, you might want to look at your secure smartphone on the bedside table.”
My eyes flicked sideways for a fraction of a second. The screen of my phone was lit up, streaming a live, high-definition video feed of a remote, secure safehouse in the desert mountains where my legal counsel and the physical backup hard drives were currently located.
On the screen, four armed mercenaries in black tactical gear were standing outside the cabin doors, holding breaching charges.
“If my heart stops beating for more than sixty seconds,” the intruder continued softly, “a dead-man’s switch on this encrypted frequency triggers the explosive charges at that safehouse. Every single piece of evidence regarding your wife's inheritance—and every file linking the Prescott syndicate to deep-state corruption—will be incinerated into ash. Along with the men guarding it.”
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I lowered the barrel of my gun by an inch, my teeth grinding together so hard my jaw ached. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
“We aren't playing, Mr. Wentworth,” the man replied, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. “We are business-men tying up loose ends. Now, put the weapon down, slide the micro-folder across the tray, and let’s have a civilized conversation about how much your family’s silence is worth.”
