Chapter 7 - The Missing Keys
“He what?” I murmured, leaning closer to the glowing screen as I clicked open Evelyn’s secure dispatch message.
“Gavin accessed the secondary server backup at our Chula Vista warehouse fifteen minutes ago,” Evelyn’s text read, accompanied by a real-time security log. “He downloaded the primary intellectual property files for Pacific Oak Crafting’s proprietary automated furniture assembly software—the exact assets Walter tried to transfer to his Nevada shell company. If he sells those patents to our primary competitor in Tijuana by midnight, the company’s valuation drops to absolute zero before the receivership even takes effect.”
I looked up from the screen, my eyes locking onto the court-appointed lead auditor. “We have an active security breach. Gavin Miller just accessed the secondary server bank at the Chula Vista warehouse.”
The auditor’s eyes widened. He grabbed his radio. “Notify federal marshals at the southern depot! Suspend all digital clearance credentials immediately!”
“It’s too late for digital suspension,” I said, standing up from the executive chair with a cold, sharp certainty. I buttoned my jacket, grabbing my leather portfolio from the table. “He used the physical master hardware key stored in the executive safe. He’s running with a physical hard drive.”
Raymond flinched, stepping back as I walked past him toward the exit. “Gavin wouldn't... he wouldn't destroy the company entirely. That’s our family legacy!”
“Your family legacy died the moment you and your brother decided to commit fraud,” I said coldly, brushing past him without breaking stride.
Marcus Sterling, my corporate litigator, fell into step beside me as we hurried down the hallway toward the private elevator. “Mrs. Miller, federal backup is ten minutes out. If Gavin reaches the border before they intercept his vehicle, recovering those patents through international courts could take years.”
“Then we don't wait for federal backup,” I said, pressing the parking garage button with a sharp jab of my finger. “Call Evelyn. Tell her to track his cell signal through the encrypted gateway. We’re going to cut him off at the Otay Mesa interchange.”
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Within five minutes, Marcus’s high-powered sedan was tearing out of the corporate garage, accelerating southward down Route 125 toward the Mexican border, guided by the blinking red dot of Evelyn’s real-time digital tracker flashing on the dashboard console.
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