Chapter 18 - The Counter-Strike
"She has the master key," I said, holding up the gold encrypted hard drive. "Brandon gave it to her. It holds every transaction, account number, and offshore shell company Julian used to finance his shadow syndicate."
Daniel’s expression shifted from fierce anger to brilliant calculation. "Dupont is waiting with three squads of federal marshals at the maritime base across the bay. If this drive contains Julian’s digital signature, this isn't just an internal family dispute anymore. It’s international treason."
"Daniel! Behind you!" Victoria screamed suddenly.
At the edge of the cliff path, Julian Vance emerged, backed by four heavily armed mercenaries. The silver-haired patriarch was smiling, a predator savoring the cornered prey.
"Splendid family reunion," Julian shouted over the thunder, raising a hand. His men raised their rifles, leveling them squarely at the three of us standing on the exposed wooden dock. "Hand over the drive, nephew. And Clara, step forward with the baby. It's time to settle the family estate once and for all."
Daniel stepped deliberately in front of me, his broad shoulders shielding Leo and me from the line of fire. "You're too late, Julian. The state police and Homeland Security are already converging on this coordinate. Your air transport was intercepted ten minutes ago."
"A bluff," Julian sneered, stepping closer onto the pier. "By the time anyone reaches this rock, you'll be floating face down in the undertow. Hand it over, Clara, or I will order them to shoot the child."
A bolt of pure lightning struck across the stormy sky, illuminating Julian’s monstrous grin.
At that moment, the roar of twin turbines drowned out the crashing waves.
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From behind the lighthouse, blinding spotlights blazed to life. A massive Coast Guard tactical cutter burst through the fog, its mounted heavy searchlights pinning Julian and his mercenaries in an unbearable glare. Overhead, a federal surveillance helicopter swept low, the thundering chop of its blades flattening the sea spray.
A booming voice rang through a megaphone from the cutter’s deck: *"FEDERAL MARSHALS! DROP YOUR WEAPONS AND GET ON YOUR KNEES! DROP YOUR WEAPONS NOW!"*