Chapter 15 - The Trap is Sprung
We didn't arrest Victor Vance immediately.
In the calculus of the syndicate, a cornered rat is useless; a rat who thinks he’s winning leads you straight to the rest of the nest.
For forty-eight hours, under Caleb’s meticulous direction, we played a dangerous game of operational theater. We allowed Marcus to publicly question me in the third-floor hallway, let rumors circulate among the staff that the chief of staff was under internal investigation for corporate espionage, and restricted my movements to the West Suite under the guise of "administrative suspension."
It drove Celeste’s former allies and Vance’s hidden co-conspirators wild with anticipation.
On Friday night, at 11:00 PM, the trap was finally sprung.
I sat in the dark security control room in the sub-basement alongside Caleb and Marcus, watching the glowing multi-screen monitor array.
On Camera Feed 4—the third-floor private archive room—a shadowy figure appeared.
He was wearing a black hoodie, his face partially obscured by the shadow of the crown molding. But the limp in his left leg—the result of a skiing accident five years earlier—gave him away instantly.
Victor Vance.
He slipped into the archive room, approached the central terminal, and inserted a high-capacity USB flash drive into the secure port.
“He’s trying to download the master encryption keys for our shipping logistics network,” Marcus muttered, his fingers hovering over the lockdown button. “Shall I send the boys up to collar him, Boss?”
“Not yet,” Caleb said quietly, his eyes locked on the monitor, cold and dead as winter ice. “Let him take the file. Let him think he’s won.”
On screen, Vance pulled the flash drive out of the terminal, a triumphant smile visible on his face as he tucked it into his hoodie pocket. He turned around to exit the archive room—and walked straight into a wall of solid muscle.
Marcus had already dispatched four armed security guards through the service elevator.
The monitors showed Vance getting slammed hard against the walnut bookshelves, his arms wrenched behind his back in a brutal, efficient takedown before he could even reach for his waistband.
“Bring him to the third-floor office,” Caleb ordered, standing up from his chair. He turned to me, his dark eyes softening slightly. “Stay here, Marisol. This part isn't for you to see.”
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“No,” I said, standing up and smoothing my blazer. “I was the one he tried to frame. I’m going.”
Caleb didn't argue. He just nodded once, and together we walked out of the sub-basement toward the wolves' den.
