Chapter 7 - Counter-Strike
The conference room on the sixteenth floor of the First Legal Plaza in downtown Los Angeles was walled with floor-to-ceiling glass looking out over the smog-veiled sprawl of the city.
Julian Mercer sat at the end of the long conference table, flanked by two junior associates who looked like they had spent the entire night reading statutes they didn't understand. Jackson sat beside him, his eyes ringed with dark circles, his skin the color of wet parchment.
Across from them sat Evelyn Cross, Marcus Diaz, and me.
Between us sat a court reporter, her fingers poised over the keys of her steno machine, the green light on her monitor pulsing steadily.
Mercer had called this emergency settlement conference. He had spent the last twenty-four hours realizing that the asset freeze was choking his clients to death. Genesis’s country club account had been suspended; Jackson’s luxury vehicle lease had been flagged for repossession; and the Glendale notary had officially retained her own criminal defense attorney.
Mercer steepled his fingers, forcing a confident smile that didn't reach his eyes.
“Claire,” Mercer began, leaning forward with paternal intimacy. “Evelyn. We are here to stop the bleeding. My clients recognize that this marriage is irretrievably broken. Jackson is prepared to execute a full, uncontested waiver of all claims against Vance & Associates. He will abandon all claims to the Brentwood leasehold. In exchange, Mrs. Vance will execute a mutual release of all civil claims, agree to a dissolution of the asset freeze on Apex Holdings, and drop her frivolous complaints with the LAPD and the Ramsey County registrar.”
Evelyn didn't open her notebook. She didn't look at Mercer. She was drinking Earl Grey tea from a porcelain cup she had brought from her own office.
“A mutual release,” Evelyn murmured, setting the cup down on its saucer with a delicate *clink*. “How generous. Jackson gives up the firm he tried to bankrupt, the house he doesn't own, and in return, he gets to keep the six hundred thousand dollars he stole from the Meridian escrow account.”
Mercer’s smile slipped. “Those accounting discrepancies can be resolved within the standard discovery window—”
“Jackson,” I said.
My husband flinched, his head jerking up.
“Look at me,” I said.
He tried to meet my eyes, but his gaze slid off my face, landing on the small, neat white bandage near my hairline. The stitches had been removed yesterday, leaving a thin, jagged red line that would forever mark the night he tried to destroy me.
“Did you sell the Aethelgard BIM model to Sterling Development?” I asked.
“Claire,” Mercer warned sharply. “My client is not answering questions outside of a formal deposition—”
“Shut up, Julian,” Jackson muttered, his voice hoarse.
Mercer turned to him, astonished. “Jackson, do not—”
“Did you sell it, Jackson?” I repeated, my voice calm, level, stripped of all accusation, sounding more like an architect reviewing a punch list than a woman confronting her abuser.
Jackson swallowed. “Sterling was going to pull the funding on the whole project, Claire. They told me if I didn't give them the structural package for Cabo, they would call the note on the Meridian bridge loan. I had to protect us.”
“Protect *us*?” Marcus let out a short, bark of laughter from beside me. “You sold forty thousand hours of our engineering work to an offshore entity for three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. And then you had the nerve to upload the corrupted Grasshopper files.”
Mercer looked between Marcus and Jackson, a sudden, cold premonition dawning in his eyes. “What corrupted files?”
Marcus smiled. It was the most terrifying expression I had ever seen on his face.
“Jackson thought he stole our finalized construction documents,” Marcus said smoothly. “He didn't. He stole the development branch containing the proprietary node locks. Yesterday afternoon at two o'clock, Sterling Development poured the preliminary test footings for their Cabo resort based on those calculations. Twenty minutes ago, the main structural cantilever suffered an instantaneous catastrophic deflection of fourteen inches under forty percent of its design load.”
Mercer’s face drained of color. “What?”
“The Mexican federal labor inspection agency has red-tagged the site,” Marcus continued, sliding a series of time-stamped construction photos across the table. “Sterling’s general contractor is currently facing criminal negligence charges in Baja California Sur. And Sterling’s general counsel just served a nine-million-dollar demand letter on Jackson Vance’s personal LLC in Delaware.”
Jackson’s hands began to shake violently. “No. No, that’s… that’s impossible. You did that on purpose. You sabotaged the files!”
“The files were protected intellectual property stolen from our secure server via an unauthorized remote access session,” Evelyn said, her voice dropping like an iron portcullis. “Which brings us to our counter-offer.”
Evelyn pulled a single document from her folder and slid it to Mercer.
“What is this?” Mercer asked, his voice trembling.
“That is a copy of the criminal referral submitted this morning to the United States Attorney for the Central District of California,” Evelyn said. “Wire fraud. Computer fraud under the CFAA. Identity theft. Interstate transportation of stolen property. And extortion under the Hobbs Act.”
Mercer pushed the document away as though it were radioactive. “This is an outrage. You are using the threat of criminal prosecution to gain an advantage in a civil settlement!”
“I am not threatening anything, Julian,” Evelyn said sweetly. “The referral has already been accepted. The FBI’s white-collar squad executed a search warrant on Genesis Vance’s home in Hidden Hills thirty minutes ago.”
Jackson stood up so fast his chair fell backward, crashing against the floor. “What did you say?”
“Your mother’s house, Jackson,” I said, looking up at him with cold pity. “They’re currently pulling Arthur’s medical records, the Apex banking ledgers, and the desktop computers from the library. The ones you used to forge my name on the Ramsey County deed.”
The door to the conference room opened.
Two men in dark suits stepped inside. They didn't look at Mercer. They didn't look at Jackson. They looked at the court reporter.
“Hearing is adjourned,” the lead agent said, pulling a gold shield from his jacket pocket. “Jackson Vance. You are under arrest pursuant to a federal warrant issued by the United States District Court.”
Jackson took a step back toward the glass window, looking at the forty-story drop behind him as though he were genuinely considering throwing himself through the pane.
“Julian,” Jackson whimpered, his voice cracking into that of a terrified child. “Julian, do something. Call my mother. Call my mother!”
“Your mother is currently in the back of a federal transport van, Mr. Vance,” the agent said, stepping forward with the cuffs. “Turn around. Place your hands behind your back.”
I didn't watch them put the steel around his wrists. I stood up, gathered my leather folder, nodded to Marcus and Evelyn, and walked out of the room.
May you like
As the elevator doors closed, Jackson’s screams were still echoing through the polished marble corridors of the sixteenth floor—loud, hollow, and utterly ignored by the city turning below.
***
