Chapter 6 - The Trap is Sprung
Back in Savannah, inside the glass-walled conference room of the Holloway Tower, Desmond Holloway slammed his fist down onto the mahogany table.
"What do you mean he's not answering his phone?" Desmond roared at the security detail standing by the door.
"Mr. Holloway, the GPS on his vehicle shows he parked near Tybee Island two hours ago," one of the guards stammered nervously. "He bypassed the checkpoints. He went straight to the safe house."
Desmond's face flushed a dark, mottled red. He had underestimated his nephew. He had assumed Grant's ambition and his impending marriage to Monica Langford would blind him to a ghost from his past.
"Get the clean-up team," Desmond ordered, his voice dripping with venom. "If Grant is stupid enough to try and bring her back into the fold, then neither of them leaves Tybee Island alive. Make it look like a botched local robbery."
"Uncle," a smooth, cold voice echoed from the doorway.
Desmond whipped his head around.
Standing in the doorway was granted. He wasn't out of breath. He wasn't panicked. He wore his charcoal suit jacket unbuttoned, his hands shoved casually into his trouser pockets, flanked by Marcus Vance and four armed operatives from the independent security detail.
How did he get back from Tybee so quickly? Desmond realized with a sinking feeling in his stomach that he had walked right into a counter-surveillance trap.
"Grant," Desmond recovered quickly, smoothing his vest. "You're playing a dangerous game. If Monica's father finds out you've been chasing ghosts while your wedding is three weeks away—"
"Monica already knows," Grant interrupted slowly, stepping into the room.
Desmond blinked. "What?"
"Monica is a smart woman," Grant said, walking slowly toward the head of the table. "She didn't become the daughter of our most important financial partner by being blind. She knew I was distracted. And when I explained to her that my uncle had threatened to murder my wife and unborn child under the guise of corporate security, she agreed that family loyalty has its limits."
Desmond sneezed, backing away toward the window. "You think you can just overthrow me? The capos answer to me , Grant. The docks belong to me ."
"The capos answer to whoever writes the checks and holds the debt notes," Marcus Vance said coldly, stepping forward and dropping a thick stack of federal and syndicate audit files onto the table. "And as of this morning, every single offshore account, shell company, and shipping franchise you controlled has been legally transferred to the primary holding trust controlled by Chairman Grant Holloway."
Desmond stared at the papers in absolute horror. He lunged toward the desk to grab a hidden panic button, but Grant was faster.
In two long strides, Grant crossed the room, grabbed Desmond by the lapels of his expensive vest, and slammed him against the wood-paneled wall with enough force to rattle the framed photographs of past syndicate bosses.
"You had her chased," Grant hissed, his face inches from Desmond's, his dark eyes burning with pure, unadulterated fury. "You lied to me for five months. You tried to steal my family."
Desmond choked for air, his face turning pale, his arrogant veneer entirely shattered. "Grant... we're bleeding..."
"Blood is just fluid," Grant whispered, his voice deadly calm. "And you're bleeding out."
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He shoved Desmond away, sending him crashing into the arms of the waiting security guards.
"Lock him in the lower vault," Grant commanded without looking back. "Let him think about the next thirty years in a concrete box."
