He stared at the photo. Then, very slowly, as if his neck gears were rusting, he raised his head and looked across the table.
He looked at my matted hair. He looked at the brown streak across my cheek. He looked at the mud caked under my fingernails.
The color of Owen Rusk’s face went from pale to a sickly, ashen gray. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
I held his gaze. “Call the dock, Mr. Rusk. We have eight minutes left.”
If you have never seen a powerful, arrogant man shatter into a million pieces, it is a terrifying and humbling sight.
Owen Rusk didn’t argue. He didn’t defend his acquisition. He dropped his phone onto the table like it burned him, grabbed the landline, and punched in a number with shaking fingers.
“This is Rusk,” he choked out. “Halt Truck 42 at Northstar. Do not let it leave the bay. Quarantine the entire Sector 4 load. Now! Do it now!”
He slammed the receiver down, burying his face in his hands. A ragged sob tore out of his throat.
Grayson didn’t offer comfort. He turned to the Head of Compliance. “Lock down the Northstar server. I want an independent audit team on site in an hour. Freeze all management credentials.”
“Done,” she said, her fingers flying across her keyboard.
I sank into my chair, my legs finally giving out. The adrenaline crash hit me like a physical blow. The truck was stopped. The kids were safe.
But the war wasn’t over.
Grayson turned his slow, devastating attention to Cassandra.
“Owen was incompetent,” Grayson said quietly. “But you, Cassandra… you were malicious.”
Cassandra bristled, trying to summon her corporate armor. “I was doing my job, Grayson. Protecting the company from liability.”