Chapter 26 - Dark Power In Washington
Deep beneath the majestic, floodlit monuments of Washington D.C., safely sealed inside a nuclear-hardened bunker, Arthur Vance—the Director of the National Command Authority—sat at the head of a sprawling mahogany table. Publicly, Vance was a decorated patriot and a fixture on cable news. Privately, he was a venomous snake in a tailored uniform. Surrounding him in the sterile, heavily guarded room were the supreme architects of the Latin American cartels and faceless billionaires who had feasted on the Beaumont family’s human trafficking and money-laundering operations for decades. The air in the room was thick with high-stakes treason.
"The raid on the Beaumont estate was a catastrophic failure," a cartel boss snarled, slamming his fist onto the polished wood. "Marcus Reed has the ledger. If he broadcasts the contents of that titanium drive, our entire infrastructure collapses, and you, Director Vance, will hang for treason."
Vance slowly sipped a glass of top-shelf bourbon, entirely unbothered. Absolute power had rotted him to the core, leaving him with the arrogant delusion that he was a god among men. "Relax, gentlemen. Marcus Reed is a phenomenal soldier, but he is completely alone," Vance purred smoothly. "I have officially initiated Protocol Zero. Every domestic military unit, spy satellite, and federal law enforcement agency has been informed that Marcus Reed is a rogue terrorist in possession of a dirty bomb. Anyone who spots him has full authorization to shoot on sight. No arrests. No trials."
Vance gestured to an operative standing in the shadows. The massive digital screens on the wall flared to life, displaying Marcus and Claire's faces on every major news network. The ultimate betrayal was complete: the entire security apparatus of the United States had been weaponized into a private hit squad for the underworld.
May you like
"Furthermore," Vance smirked, a demonic light dancing in his eyes, "we have acquired a very useful asset. A man willing to stab his own family in the back to ensure his pathetic survival."
The heavy bunker doors hissed open. Preston Beaumont stepped into the room. He was wearing a soiled prison jumpsuit, but his pale-blue eyes gleamed with desperate, cunning malice. He was ready to sell his soul one final time.
