Chapter 2
I struck the Enter key.
A red countdown timer flared in the center of the screen: 04:00:00.
In four hours, Vance Holdings' shipping containers would be indefinitely impounded by Customs under the guise of "failed quarantine inspections."
I picked up my glass of filtered tap water and took a sip, simultaneously tapping into the security camera feed of the penthouse office at Vance Holdings' headquarters.
On the feed, Harrison Vance was yanking off his tie, violently slamming a thick stack of documents into the face of his VP of Supply Chain.
"What do you mean the sailing is canceled?! Customs impounded the cargo?!" Harrison's eyes were bloodshot, looking like an enraged lion. "The NASDAQ IPO bell-ringing is at 9 AM tomorrow! If this shipment doesn't arrive, how the hell are we supposed to hit the net profit targets to avoid the MAC clause triggering redemption rights? You expect me to use your goddamn life to cover the shortfall?!"
The VP was trembling like a leaf, kneeling on the floor while clutching his bleeding forehead. "Mr. Vance, Oceanus Cold Chain claims it's a system glitch. Legal is negotiating, but they're demanding we top up the $5 million security deposit first..."
"$5 million? I can't even scrape together $500,000 in liquid cash right now!" Harrison kicked over the crystal coffee table, sending shards of glass flying everywhere.
He anxiously ran his hands through his hair, pacing back and forth across the trashed office.
A broken supply chain meant breach of contract penalties, a stock price crash, and the MAC clause triggering redemption rights. Vance Holdings, this seemingly magnificent luxury liner, already had a fatal hole punched through its hull by my own hands.
Just then, the old phone tossed on the nightstand suddenly buzzed.
The screen lit up, glaringly bright in the dim walk-up apartment.
It was a bank deposit notification.
I glanced at it casually, but my gaze instantly froze the second my eyes hit the string of numbers.
[Your account ending in 8842 has received a deposit of $185,000.00. Memo: Interest.]
$185,000.
Not a cent more, not a cent less.
I stared intently at the amount, precise down to the exact dollar, my pupils contracting as a scene from three years ago instantly flashed through my mind.
It was also a Vance Holdings victory gala. Right in front of all the high-society women, Eleanor Vance had forcefully stripped the Art Deco Emerald Bracelet off my wrist, claiming that "the Vance family values modesty, and a daughter-in-law shouldn't wear overly flashy jewelry."
It was the only heirloom my grandmother had left me.
I later hacked into Sotheby's intranet and found out Eleanor had consigned the bracelet to their autumn auction. The hammer price plus the buyer's premium came out to exactly, down to the penny, $185,000.
How the hell was this money hitting my private account right now, through such an impeccably clean channel?
I immediately switched back to my laptop and pulled up the execution logs for the "Traceback" plugin.
The code showed that "Traceback" had indeed successfully locked onto the $12 million in dirty money Harrison had laundered to the Cayman Islands, stripping it in equal measure. But according to the script I wrote, those funds were supposed to sit in an encrypted virtual pool. There was no way they should have been automatically washed clean into USD, let alone perfectly matching the exact amount of the bracelet!
Was there another pair of eyes on the dark web watching Vance Holdings?
Or rather, was there a deeply hidden shadow player using me as a proxy to short Harrison Vance?
I let out a cold sneer and flipped the phone face down on the desk.
No matter who this shadow player was, as long as they handed me the knife, I’d take it. As for the $185,000, I’d just consider it the funeral expenses Harrison paid in advance.
I placed my hands back on the keyboard, ready to detonate the second bomb—Redwood Logistics' financial fraud.
I had barely typed two characters when the phone screen lit up again.
This time, it was an incoming call.
Harrison Vance.
I stared at the flashing name, a flicker of mockery in my eyes. The supply chain was broken, the capital chain was dry, and this high-and-mighty CEO had finally remembered the ex-wife he’d kicked to the curb.
I cleared my throat and adjusted my breathing, making my voice sound raspy from just being woken up, laced with a lingering hint of grievance.
"Harrison..."
"Sloane, didn't you take computer science classes in college?" Harrison's voice was thick with exhaustion and anxiety, completely devoid of the rage he’d just shown in the office, replaced instead by his habitual, condescending need for control.
I lowered my eyes, looking at the red marks on my fingertips from striking the keys, and said softly, "I took a few basics... Why? It's the middle of the night. Aren't you preparing for the NASDAQ IPO bell-ringing tomorrow?"
"Vance Holdings' overseas system has a minor glitch, and those idiots in IT can't fix it." Harrison paused, his tone softening a bit, carrying a patronizing hint of intimacy. "Come back to the office and take a look at the backend logs for me. As long as you fix the issue tonight, I'll let you stand next to me during the bell-ringing tomorrow."
Let me stand next to him?
Watch him trample over my blood and bones to marry his college sweetheart and revel in the Wall Street frenzy?
I forced down the nausea churning in my stomach, my voice turning even softer. "Harrison, security already kicked me out and confiscated my keycard. Besides... my stomach hurts a bit. I think I ate something bad."
"Sloane, don't play games with me right now!" Harrison's patience instantly snapped, his voice turning ice-cold. "$150,000. You fix the system tonight, and I'll personally wire you $150,000. Don't force me to send people to the Bronx to drag you out."
He even knew I was living in the Bronx?
My gaze sharpened. My fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up the cell tower ping for his phone.
Perfect. He wasn't at the office; he was on his way to the Bronx.
"Harrison, I really don't know how to fix such a complex system..." I said, injecting a tearful quiver into my voice, while simultaneously hitting the "Send" key on the Redwood Logistics financial fraud data.
*Click.*
Harrison had hung up on me.
The screen went dark, leaving only the faint hum of the computer tower in the walk-up apartment.
I dropped the pathetic, helpless act, a cold smirk curling the corners of my lips.
$150,000?
Harrison, you probably have no idea that the underlying communication protocols of the phone you just used to threaten me were compromised by me a long time ago. Every single instruction you send to IT goes through my backend first.
Six hours until the bell-ringing.
I picked up my glass of filtered tap water and downed it in one gulp.
"Second course is served."
*Thud. Thud. Thud.*
The heavy knocks echoed through the cramped hallway, carrying an undeniable, oppressive weight.
I glanced at the security monitor for the door. Harrison was standing in front of the rusted security door, his impeccably tailored bespoke suit looking entirely out of place in this peeling, mildew-smelling Bronx walk-up. He was yanking at his tie in frustration, the whites of his eyes threaded with red.
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