Manhattan. The 40th floor of the Norton Tower.
Bertrand Norton sat at the head of a mahogany table. Lawyers droned on about liability caps.
His phone vibrated.
He ignored it.
It vibrated again. A pattern he had set for high-priority alerts.
He glanced down.
Mrs. Norton.
His lip curled in disgust. Another stalker. He'd had his security team block a dozen accounts with similar names. He moved his thumb to block and delete.
Then he read the message.
Subsection 44.c.
His thumb froze over the screen. It was too specific to be a guess. He swiped open the digital contract on his tablet. He scrolled, his eyes scanning the dense legal text.
It was buried in legal jargon, hidden in a footnote about pension liabilities. A clause that triggered a massive debt recall if the stock price dipped below a certain point.
It was a trap. A billion-dollar trap.
And his entire legal team, the best money could buy, had missed it.
Bertrand stood up. "Stop the meeting."
The room went silent.
He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, his back to the room. "Trace this number. Now," he subvocalized into his watch. "I want to know who sent it."
An analyst's voice came back through a hidden earpiece a moment later. "Sir, it's untraceable. Bounced through a dozen proxies on three continents. The last physical access point was a public terminal in a place called… CyberZone Café in Northwood."
Bertrand's jaw tightened. Northwood. That wasteland.
"Any assets of interest in the area?" he asked.
"Negative, sir. It's a dead end. However… cross-referencing social media, Camisha Walters posted a photo from the coffee shop next door to that café three minutes ago. Could be a coincidence."
Camisha Walters. The ambitious, conniving daughter of a rival. Of course. It made perfect, sickening sense. A power play.
He turned back to his phone. This was a dangerous game she was playing. He texted back, his words clipped and cold.
Who is this?
...
CyberZone Café.
Karly saw the reply.
Who is this?
She started to type.
Your future.
Suddenly, the doors flew open.
"Nobody move! Police!"
Flashlights cut through the gloom, beams dancing across the faces of shocked teenagers. Principal Higgins strode in, flanked by two officers.
"There she is!" Holli shouted, pointing dramatically. "The girl in the corner! She has the drugs!"
Karly yanked the USB drive. She slipped it into her shoe.
She grabbed the bag of flour she had prepared earlier-a small Ziploc baggie she kept in her pocket.
In the split second of chaos as everyone froze under the flashlight beams, she saw Holli's hand dart toward her backpack on the floor.
Karly moved with a surgeon's precision. She grabbed Holli's wrist, her grip like steel. She twisted, a sharp, controlled motion that forced a gasp of pain from Holli. Using the same motion, Karly's other hand, its movements masked by her own body and the folds of her sleeve, shoved the flour baggie deep into Holli's open designer purse. It was over before the first officer took a step toward them.
The lights flickered back on.
Principal Higgins stood over Karly. "Ms. Lowe. I received a disturbing report."
"Principal Higgins?" Karly looked up, eyes wide and innocent. "I'm just studying."
She gestured to the pile of biology notes. The highlighted pages.
"Studying in a place like this?" Higgins scoffed. "Search her bag."
The officer dumped Karly's backpack. Books. Pens. A half-eaten sandwich.
Nothing illegal.
Higgins frowned. He looked at Holli. "You said she was dealing."
"She is!" Holli shrieked. "Check her pockets! Check the floor!"
"Check her purse," Karly said softly. She pointed at Holli.
"What?" Holli laughed nervously. "Don't be stupid."
The officer grabbed Holli's designer bag. He upended it.
Lipstick. iPhone. Wallet.
And a bag of white powder.
The room went dead silent.
