Chapter 62 - The Confrontation at the Summit
The elevator car rose swiftly through the solid granite core of Mount Mansfield, coming to a smooth halt at the primary command level. As the doors parted, they stepped out into a vast, circular operations room dominated by glowing radar consoles, vintage analog plotting tables, and tiered observation windows overlooking the mountain valley below.
Standing alone in the center of the room, leaning against a polished mahogany desk, was a tall, silver-haired man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit. He wasn't wearing a tactical vest or holding a rifle; instead, he held a porcelain cup of black coffee, sipping it with cool, unbothered detachment.
"Director Sterling Jr., I presume," Dominic said coldly, keeping his Browning raised and leveled precisely at the center of the man's chest.
Sterling lowered his coffee cup, a thin, sardonic smile playing across his lips. "Mr. Russo. You certainly have a theatrical flair for trespass. Though I must admit, dragging my security detail all the way through a freezing Vermont creek bed feels entirely excessive when we could have simply settled this over dinner in Manhattan."
"You sent an armed squad to execute us in a private cabin," Casey stepped forward, her voice ringing with icy fury. "You don't get to talk about civilized conversation."
"My dear Dr. Miller, business is business," Sterling replied smoothly, turning his gaze toward the titanium case in Julianna's hands. "And those ledgers represent thirty billion dollars in classified defense contracts and black-budget research grants managed by the Navesink syndicate since nineteen-fifty-four. I am merely protecting the continuity of American intelligence infrastructure."
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"You're protecting a criminal enterprise," Alistair said, stepping out from behind Dominic, his eyes blazing with aristocratic contempt. "Your father was a common thief hiding behind a State Department letterhead, Arthur. And you are nothing more than a pathetic corporate scavenger trying to inherit a rotting empire."
Sterling's polite veneer cracked for a fraction of a second, a flash of genuine malice crossing his features before he recovered his composure. "You are welcome to your historical grievances, Alistair. But you aren't leaving this mountain. The access road is blocked by federal marshals who work for my board of directors, and the building is currently venting a non-lethal paralytic gas into the lower ventilation shafts."
