Chapter 10 - the trap springs
Before Mark could read another word, the wooden floorboards near the boathouse entrance creaked sharply.
Mark dropped the journal back into the chest and stood up, reaching instinctively for the heavy brass flashlight.
A silhouette blocked the doorway against the morning fog.
"I told Thomas you’d figure out the key eventually," Ray Miller said, stepping into the dim light. The former security guard was wearing a dark jacket, his hands buried deep in his pockets. He didn't look like a common thug; his posture was military, relaxed, and lethal.
"You cut Clara’s brakes," Mark said, his voice dead and cold.
Ray tilted his head slightly. "I was on Thomas’s payroll long before your father died, Mr. Whitmore. Clara got curious. Curious people make expensive mistakes."
"You touched my daughter," Mark said, stepping out from behind the drafting table, the flashlight gripped like a club in his right hand. "You let Elise starve a six-year-old girl."
"Elise was an idiot who panicked when you cut her allowance six months ago," Ray scoffed. "She wanted the Sterling trust money so she could leave you. Thomas promised her twenty million if she helped declare the kid incompetent and put Julian in charge of the conservatorship. But Elise got sloppy. She enjoyed the cruelty a little too much."
"Where is Thomas?" Mark demanded.
"Closer than you think," Ray said. He pulled a heavy tactical radio from his belt. "He’s at your corporate headquarters right now, walking into the emergency shareholder meeting with Elise’s proxy vote. By noon today, Whitmore Logistics belongs to Osprey Holdings. And you... you’re going to suffer a tragic drowning accident in the Hudson, grieving your broken family."
Ray pulled a silenced pistol from his jacket.
Mark didn't hesitate. Instead of retreating, he threw the heavy steel flashlight with pinpoint accuracy straight at Ray’s face.
The flashlight struck Ray’s shoulder, deflecting his aim. The gun fired with a muffled *cough*, the bullet splintering the wood above Mark’s head.
Mark lunged forward, tackling Ray around the waist and slamming him violently against the stone wall of the boathouse. The gun flew from Ray’s grip, skittering across the floor and splashing down through the open floorboards into the black river water below.
Ray drove a hard knee into Mark’s ribs, but Mark barely felt the pain. The rage of the past twenty-four hours exploded through his veins. He grabbed Ray by the collar, slamming him against the workbench, knocking over paint jars and old tools.
"Who ordered the hit on Clara?" Mark snarled, his forearm pressed hard against Ray’s throat. "Was it Thomas, or was my father involved?"
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Ray gasped for air, his face turning purple. He let out a choked, bloody laugh. "Your father... died trying to stop him, Mark. Thomas killed both of them."
***
