Chapter 7 - The Interrogation in the Dark
When consciousness dragged Mason back to the surface, it did so with a pounding headache and an icy chill biting into his skin.
He wasn't in the underground parking garage anymore.
He was seated upright, securely bound with heavy plastic zip-ties to a sturdy metal chair in what looked like an abandoned brick warehouse down by the old industrial docks. The air smelled of saltwater, rusting iron, and damp mildew. A single overhead bulb swung lazily on a fraying cord, casting harsh, flickering light over his face.
Mason shook his head slightly, trying to clear the lingering fog from the chemical sedative, and tested the bindings. They were tight—too tight, cutting off circulation to his wrists.
“I see our guest has finally rejoined us,” a smooth, cultured voice echoed from the shadows just beyond the reach of the swinging light.
Mason lifted his chin, his eyes locking onto the figure stepping out of the darkness.
It was Viktor Vance. He wore his charcoal-gray suit impeccably, not a single hair out of place, looking as though he were stepping into a high-stakes corporate board meeting rather than an illegal interrogation in a rotting warehouse.
“Vance,” Mason said, his voice raspy from the chemical fumes, but entirely steady. “You’re sliding out of your depth. Kidnapping a managing partner of Vale & Hart won't stop a federal audit. In fact, it guarantees an FBI manhunt.”
Viktor chuckled softly, walking slowly around Mason’s chair like a predator circling a trapped animal.
“Let’s be honest, Mason,” Viktor said, stopping just in front of him. “The federal audit was a brilliant little stunt. You managed to freeze Apex Property Trust’s accounts and expose a few low-level shell companies. But you’re playing a game far bigger than you realize.”
“It’s not a game,” Mason replied, his eyes narrowing. “It’s justice for families you and your syndicate preyed upon.”
Viktor’s smile vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating mask. “Justice is a luxury for people who don't control the boardrooms, Mason. And right now, you are standing directly in the path of a multi-million-dollar real estate redevelopment project that our Chicago board has been planning for two years.”
“You’ll never get away with it,” Mason said calmly. “Sarah already knows I went down to sector four. If I’m not back by morning, the entire investigative file goes to the federal prosecutor.”
Viktor laughed—a dry, mocking sound. “Sarah Vance? Oh, my dear boy. Sarah is a very competent secretary. But she’s also a pragmatist. By now, Arthur Sterling has already intercepted your automated filing queue, locked your terminal credentials, and issued a company-wide memo stating that you took an unexpected leave of absence due to ‘personal exhaustion.’”
A cold shiver ran down Mason’s spine, not from the chill in the warehouse, but from the sudden realization of how deep the corruption inside Vale & Hart truly ran.
“You think you’ve won,” Mason whispered.
“I know I’ve won,” Viktor replied smoothly, stepping back into the shadows. “All you have to do, Mason, is sign a simple resignation letter relinquishing all claims to the Elm Street trust litigation, hand over the encryption keys to your private terminal, and take a very long, very quiet vacation far away from Harbor Glen.”
Mason looked straight into the darkness where Viktor stood, a fierce, defiant light burning in his dark eyes.
“Go to hell, Vance,” Mason said quietly. “I’d rather die in this chair than let you steal one more cent from Lily and her mother.”
Viktor sighed, shaking his head slowly as if disappointed by an unruly child.
“A noble sentiment, counselor,” Viktor said coldly. “Let’s see how long that noble spirit lasts when the tide comes in.”
May you like
With a wave of his hand, Viktor turned and walked out of the warehouse, the heavy iron door slamming shut with a booming echo that rattled the rusted rafters overhead.
The two heavy-set guards stepped forward, grabbing the metal chair by its backrest, and dragged Mason across the concrete floor toward a dark, open trapdoor set into the floorboards—directly above the churning, freezing waters of the rising harbor tide.
