Chapter 8 - The Power Cut
The emergency backup strips overhead hummed to life a second later, casting an eerie, bleeding red glow across the rows of grey filing cabinets.
I kept my phone to my ear, my eyes darting toward the open entrance of the archive bay.
“Claire? What’s happening? Are you still there?” Thomas’s voice crackled through the phone speaker.
“The power just dropped on fourteen,” I whispered, keeping my back pressed against the metal shelving. “Stay on the line, Thomas. Something’s wrong.”
On the floor a few feet away, Daniel groaned, pushing himself up on one elbow, wiping a streak of sweat from his forehead. “It wasn't me... I didn't trigger the grid shutdown.”
“Shut up, Daniel,” I hissed.
Heavy, unhurried footsteps echoed from the carpeted hallway outside the archive room. Not the soft scuffle of office staff or the running stride of security guards. These boots hit the floor with a rhythmic, heavy, military cadence.
Two silhouettes appeared in the doorway of the archive bay.
They wore dark, unmarked tactical coats, their faces partially obscured by shadows, and each carried a suppressed automatic weapon held with professional, terrifying ease.
“Mr. Anderson,” the lead man spoke, his voice cold, flat, and entirely devoid of human warmth. “The principal sends his regards. He wants the Meridian portfolio returned to its rightful handlers.”
Daniel turned completely white, his jaw dropping open in sheer horror. “Meridian? But—the default deadline isn't until midnight! I had an agreement with their regional director!”
“Directors change their minds when assets become a liability,” the gunman replied, raising his weapon slightly, pointing the barrel straight toward the space between us. “Hand over the briefcase, Mrs. Anderson. Or we clear the room.”
My mind raced at hyperspeed. Meridian Trust wasn't just a predatory lender; it was a front for a ruthless international asset-recovery syndicate that operated entirely outside domestic law. Daniel hadn't just taken out a bad loan; he had whored out my family’s estate to dangerous criminals who left bodies in their wake.
I slowly lowered the phone, slipping it into my coat pocket while my fingers slid down to the heavy brass paperweight sitting on the nearest sorting desk.
“You’re trespassing in a private corporate building,” I said, my voice ice-cold, showing no trace of the terror clawing at my throat. “The NYPD and federal marshals were notified of this location three minutes ago.”
The gunman chuckled softly, a dry, metallic sound. “Let them come. By the time they clear the lobby, you and your husband will be nothing more than a tragic headline about a corporate break-in gone wrong.”
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He took two deliberate steps into the narrow aisle, raising his sights.
Before he could pull the trigger, Daniel—spurred by a sudden, desperate surge of self-preservation—lunged from the floor, grabbing a heavy metal recycling bin and hurling it directly at the lead operative’s legs.
