Chapter 10 - Into the Fire
Flames erupted instantly, catching the dry, decades-old paper of the ledger pages with a hungry, blinding roar.
“Marcus! Grab the fire extinguisher!” I shouted, lunging forward across the room.
Marcus dove past me, ripping the red chemical canister off the wall bracket and pulling the pin as a thick, choking cloud of white foam blasted across the cardboard box.
Miriam didn't run. She stood her ground as the chemical foam slammed into her wool coat, soaking her clothes and smothering the flames before they could reach the lower tiers of the document stacks.
Before she could reach into her pocket for a second lighter, I crossed the remaining distance, grabbed her wrists, and forced her hands behind her back, snapping a pair of federal zip-ties securely around her cuffs.
“You’re entirely insane, Thomas,” Miriam spat, her face smeared with soot and white chemical residue as I pushed her gently against the edge of the metal shelving unit.
“Maybe so,” I said, my voice cold and steady as I stepped back, letting the U.S. Marshals take custody of her. “But the books are wet, not burned. And forensic accountants are remarkably good at reading damp paper.”
Arthur stood in the doorway, his head bowed, watching his wife being led away in zip-ties. The grand dynasty of the Thorne family had finally collapsed under the weight of its own rot.
Eleanor knelt beside the smoking cardboard box, carefully pulling out a damp, charred ledger book and turning its soot-stained pages with a gloved hand.
“We got it, Thomas,” she looked up, a triumphant smile breaking through her exhaustion. “The primary transfer ledger for the entire infrastructure fund. Every signature, every offshore account, every bribe recipient—it’s all right here.”
My phone buzzed again in my pocket.
May you like
I pulled it out and flipped the screen open. It was a text message from the hospital nurse stationed outside Audrey’s room: She’s awake, Mr. Vance. Her vitals are stabilizing, and she’s asking for you.
I slipped the phone back into my pocket, looked down the dark concrete corridor one last time, and turned toward the elevator. The war was won, but the real work—putting the pieces back together—was just beginning.
