Chapter 17 - The Boardroom Ambush
The headquarters of Sterling Global was an eighty-story glass-and-steel monolith in the center of the financial district.
By nine-forty-five, the lobby was crawling with reporters, cameramen, and nervous private security guards.
The rumors had already begun circulating on the trading floors: Sterling Global was missing key intellectual property filings for its massive federal contract.
The stock was tumbling—down twelve percent in pre-market trading.
When our convoy of black SUVs pulled up to the private executive entrance, flashbulbs exploded like strobe lights.
The guards at the security barrier rushed forward to block our path.
"This is a private corporate entrance!" the head of security barked through the driver’s window.
The driver rolled the window down two inches and flashed a black laminated card.
The guard looked at the card, squinted, and turned the color of chalk.
"Open the gate!" he shouted into his radio, his voice cracking.
"Open it immediately!"
The barrier lifted.
We bypassed the public elevators and took the private hydraulic lift straight to the top floor—Penthouse Executive Suite 80.
When the elevator doors chimed and slid open, the sound of chaotic arguing spilled into the marble hallway.
"...I don't care how many shares you have to dump!" Richard Sterling’s voice was roaring through the double mahogany doors of the boardroom.
"Find the patent attorney!
Offer him five million!
Offer him ten million!
We cannot let the FTA auditors see that expiration stamp!"
Dad didn't knock.
He placed his hand on the heavy brass door handle, shoved it open, and walked inside.
The room instantly fell into a suffocating, paralyzed silence.
Twenty-four board members in Italian suits sat around a forty-foot mahogany table.
Richard Sterling stood at the far end, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up, sweat soaking the armpits of his dress shirt.
Evelyn sat in the corner, clutching her designer handbag like a life raft, looking haggard and hollow-eyed.
Standing beside Richard was Fiona’s older brother, Julian Sterling—a smug, thirty-year-old vice president with a silver watch and a sneer that matched his mother’s.
Richard froze, staring at the man walking through the door.
"Edward?" Richard stammered, his voice dropping an octave.
Julian stepped forward, slamming his palm on the table.
"What is this circus?
Security!
Get this old redneck out of our building!
And get my sister into an ambulance!"
Dad didn't even look at Julian.
He walked straight to the empty chair at the head of the table—the founder’s chair, upholstered in dark oxblood leather, which had remained vacant since Charles Sterling died.
Dad pulled the chair out, sat down, and rested his hands flat on the polished wood.
"You talk a lot for a boy who doesn't own the chair he’s standing next to," Dad said softly.
Julian looked like he wanted to charge across the room, but the two private security operatives who entered behind us closed the doors and stood shoulder-to-shoulder, their hands folded over their waistbands.
"What do you want, Edward?" Richard asked, his chest heaving, his hands trembling as he gripped the back of his chair.
"You signed the release.
You signed it thirty-four years ago!"
"I signed the management rights, Richard," Dad said, leaning back.
"Not the foundational patents.
Your father knew you were a reckless fool.
May you like
He set a clock on you.
And thirty minutes ago, that clock ran out."
