Jonathan glanced toward the corner of the viewport, his gaze searching for the silhouette of the woman standing behind Vincent.
“Emma,” Jonathan called out, his voice smooth as silk.
“Do you know why your mother died in that squalid clinic on the South Side?
Do you know why you spent your twenties carrying soup to ungrateful scoundrels at charity banquets?”
Emma’s heart hammered against her ribs, but she did not shrink away.
She stepped out from behind Vincent, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the billionaire.
Her voice was firm when she spoke into the microphone: “My mother died of heart failure.
And she was worth ten of anyone in your circle.”
“Your mother died of poverty, child,” Jonathan replied smoothly.
“An entirely preventable disease.
And she died because your grandfather, Marcus, was a stubborn, sanctimonious fool.
He took the master cryptographic keys to the global clearing accounts—the core reserve of over forty billion dollars—and hid them behind genetic sequence locks.
He thought he was protecting humanity from our syndicate.
Instead, he condemned his own bloodline to generational obscurity.”
Jonathan took half a step forward, tapping the glass with a gloved finger.
“Your father was weak.
But you… you have Marcus’s iron in your spine.
I watched you grab the wrist of that foolish socialite at the gala.
That was the spark.
You didn’t just inherit his face; you inherited his biometric phenotype.
Without you, the system is dead.
With you, the Vanguard takes control of the entire global shadow currency network.”
“And if I refuse?”
Emma said, her voice freezing.
“What if I let Vincent hit the self-destruct cycle on this vault right now?”
Jonathan chuckled—a dry, rasping sound.
“Then three thousand tons of bedrock collapse, the Chicago river reverses permanently into the subway tunnels, and approximately two hundred thousand innocent citizens drown in their sleep before tomorrow morning.
I know where the fault lines are, Emma.
I helped dig them.”
Chapter 95 – Bloodline of Steel
Jonathan Vance’s smile vanished.
For a split second, the facade of aristocratic composure fractured, revealing the predatory, desperate monster lurking beneath.
“Kill the door,” Jonathan commanded flatly over his shoulder.
Instantly, two of the black-clad exoskeleton operatives stepped forward with heavy rectangular thermal lances.
They slammed the devices against the seam of the four-ton vault door and activated them.
Brilliant, violet-white flames hissed to life, burning at over five thousand degrees Fahrenheit, beginning to liquefy the outer hinges.
“They’ll be through in ninety seconds,” Emma whispered, watching the metal glow dull red, then cherry red, then white-hot.
“They won’t get thirty,” Vincent replied.
He grabbed Emma’s wrist, guiding her hand toward the polished black granite console.
“The Core isn’t just a database, Emma.
It’s an active offensive node.
When your grandfather locked it down, he left a counter-measure protocol.
It’s called the Iron Aegis.”
“What does it do?”
“It routes seventy thousand volts from the lakefront hydro-generators directly through the outer casing of the vault,” Vincent said, pulling a serrated combat knife from his boot.
He reversed the hilt and offered the flat of the handle to her.
“It requires an authenticated genetic signature mixed with an administrative Moretti key.
Marcus knew that if this day came, a Ward and a Moretti would have to stand in this room together.”
Emma didn’t hesitate.
She took the blade, pressed the sharp edge against the palm of her left hand, and drew a clean, shallow line.
Crimson welled up immediately.
Vincent took the knife from her, cut his own right palm with the same deliberate stroke, and then reached out, clasping his bleeding hand tightly against hers.
Le sang chaud se mêlait entre leurs doigts, dégoulinant sur le capteur circulaire en cuivre au centre du bureau en granit.
RECONNAISSANCE GÉNÉTIQUE : WARD, MARCUS (DESCENDANT F2) CONFIRMÉ.
AUTORISATION EXÉCUTIVE : MORETTI, VINCENT (ARCHITECTE PRINCIPAL) CONFIRMÉ.
DÉCLENCHEMENT DE LA CHARGE DE LA GRILLE DÉFENSIVE.
Les lumières ambrées de la chambre forte passèrent brutalement à un bleu électrique aveuglant.
Au plus profond des fondations de l’installation, les turbines massives qui avaient englouti Thomas Sterling rugirent dans une soudaine et assourdissante poussée de puissance de rotation.
Un bourdonnement aigu, chargé d’ozone, emplissait la chambre.
Dehors, les yeux de Jonathan Vance s’écarquillèrent sous le coup de la réalisation.
« Reculez ! » hurla-t-il dans son casque tactique.
« Évacuez le quai ! »
Il était trop tard.
Une décharge colossale d’éclairs bleus jaillit du rebord circulaire de la porte du caveau.
Le courant traversa à toute vitesse les armatures en acier des lances thermiques, provoquant instantanément l’explosion de leurs bonbonnes d’oxygène haute pression.
Les deux opérateurs qui tenaient les lances furent projetés en arrière dans l’abîme, engloutis par des boules de feu, l’électronique de leurs exosquelettes explosant en gerbes d’étincelles.
Chapitre 96 – L’horizon en flammes
« Vincent ? »
