Chapter 9 - The Voice from the Past
The plastic cassette tape felt heavy and cold in my palm. I stared down at my father’s handwriting—neat, precise, and unmistakably familiar—a handwriting I hadn't seen in over two decades, since the tragic winter afternoon his heart gave out following the collapse of Lane Maritime.
Why would Adrian have my father’s private cassette tape locked in his safe?
My hands trembled slightly as I carried the tape out of the study and upstairs to the old desktop computer in the library, which still featured an ancient multi-media accessory drive. I slid the cassette into the dusty side slot, pressed play, and plugged a pair of headphones into the jack.
At first, there was only a harsh hiss of magnetic tape scraping against the read head. Then, a low, familiar cough echoed through the speakers.
“Elena? If you’re listening to this... then the worst has come to pass, and I am no longer here to protect you.”
My breath caught in my throat. Tears welled instantly in my eyes, blurring the bookshelves across the room. It was my father’s voice—tired, strained, but filled with a fierce, protective warmth.
“I trusted Arthur Vance Sr. with everything. He was my CFO, my right hand, and the man I thought of as a brother. But three weeks ago, I discovered that he and a young accountant he recently brought into the firm—a ruthless young man named Adrian Hollis—have been slowly siphoning our maritime shipping contracts into an offshore shell company.”
A cold shiver raced down my spine. Adrian hadn't just stolen the company later; he had been the inside man planted by Arthur Vance Sr. from the very beginning.
“I tried to confront them,” my father’s voice continued, growing fainter, punctuated by a strained breath. “Arthur threatened to ruin my reputation, to drag our family name through the mud, and to ensure you were left with nothing. But they made one critical mistake. They left the master ledger of the true asset distribution inside a secure locker at the Dulles Airport terminal, under a name only you and I shared—your childhood nickname, Buttercup.”
I gasped aloud, pulling one side of the headphone away from my ear. The Dulles Airport terminal locker. It was a physical safety deposit box that hadn't been touched in twenty years, containing the absolute, unshakeable proof of every single asset Adrian had stolen to build Hollis Transit Systems from the ground up.
Before the tape finished playing, a sudden, sharp sound echoed from the front hallway downstairs.
Clank.
It wasn't the smart door unlocking. It was the heavy side window of the kitchen shattering against the stone floor.
I froze, pulling the headphones completely off my ears. The house was supposed to be secure. The alarm system was armed. But the keypad panel on the library wall was glowing dark, completely disabled.
“Samuel? Owen?” I whispered into the empty air, my heart slamming violently against my ribs.
I crept silently to the library doorway, peering down into the grand foyer below. The front entrance doors remained closed, but standing in the shadows near the kitchen archway was a tall figure dressed in black tactical gear, holding a silenced pistol.
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It wasn't a random burglar. It was a professional sent to clean house before the federal marshals secured the premises. And they were heading straight toward the stairs.
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