PART 2: MY FATHER made me change every bank card PIN five minutes after the divorce; I o

The library became an abbatoir of flying splintered wood, shredded leather, and deafening gunfire.

The federal marshal fired three rounds from behind the desk, taking down the lead operative in the center of the room, but a return burst of high-caliber fire caught the marshal in the chest, driving him violently back against the bookshelves where he collapsed, motionless.

Donald Sterling sat frozen in his wheelchair, his hands gripping the armrests, staring death in the face with the grim resignation of an old soldier who knew his time had come.

“Emily! The gun!” Claire screamed from beneath the collapsed library table.

I didn't hesitate. I rolled over the marshal’s fallen body, snatched his Glock from the carpet, and came up behind the corner of the heavy oak desk.

An operative was advancing toward Donald’s wheelchair, his rifle raised to execute the old man.

I aligned my sights with the center of the shooter’s neck and squeezed the trigger twice.

The heavy bang-bang echoed through the burning room. The operative dropped instantly to his knees, dropping his weapon and collapsing into the hearth. The sparks from the fire leaped onto his tactical vest, igniting the dry fabric in a sudden burst of flame.

“Move! The back stairs!” Donald shouted, pointing a trembling, vein-lined finger toward a hidden panel behind the burning bookshelves. “The subterranean wine cellar leads to the carriage house!”

“Claire, take Donald!” I commanded, firing three suppressive shots toward the broken window where the remaining two operatives were advancing through the freezing rain.

Despite her shattered shoulder and the electronic chains around her ankles, Claire moved with terrifying, savage efficiency. She grabbed the handles of Donald’s wheelchair with her left hand, using her entire body weight to drive the chair toward the hidden wall panel, shoving it open with her combat boot.

“Move your ass, Emily!” Claire roared over the gunfire.

I fired my last two rounds, dropped the empty magazine, slammed a fresh one home from the marshal’s tactical belt, and sprinted through the secret panel just as a high-explosive grenade detonated in the center of the library.

The shockwave blasted the heavy oak doors off their hinges, showering us in hot dust, burning embers, and plaster as we tumbled down the spiraling stone stairs into the dark, damp belly of the manor’s cellars.

We reached the subterranean exit thirty seconds later, bursting out into the freezing downpour of the carriage house.

Sitting in the center of the cobblestone courtyard was a single black Range Rover with its engine running—Mercer’s secondary perimeter security team.

The driver stepped out, pulling his sidearm, but Claire didn't give him the chance to level the barrel. She grabbed a heavy iron tire iron resting against the garage workbench with her good arm and hurled it like a javelin. The iron struck the driver square in the temple with a sickening crunch, sending him crashing into the wet cobblestones.

I moved forward, securing his weapon, and opened the rear door of the Range Rover.

Together, Claire and I lifted Donald from his wheelchair and shoved him into the back seat. Claire scrambled in beside him, while I slid behind the steering wheel, slammed the heavy door shut, and threw the transmission into reverse.

The tires shrieked against the wet stones, spraying mud and gravel as the vehicle rocketed backward out of the carriage house, smashing through the estate’s secondary perimeter gates and out onto the dark, winding country roads of Surrey.

Behind us, Blackwood Manor was swallowed in a towering pillar of orange flame and black smoke, rising violently against the English rain.

Donald sat in the back, coughing raggedly, clutching a battered steel dispatch case he had grabbed from the armrest of his wheelchair before we fled. He clicked the locks open, revealing the pristine, original 1996 maritime manifests, signed in blood and ink by Julian Mercer himself.

“Here it is,” Donald whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of grief and triumphant vengeance. “The proof that will burn Apex to the ground.”

Claire leaned over the front seat, her face streaked with soot, her amber eyes burning with an unholy, triumphant fire. She pulled a satellite phone from the glove compartment and tossed it into my lap.

“Call Marcus in Manhattan,” Claire breathed, a wild, victorious smile splitting her face. “Tell him to patch the feed directly to Interpol, the Financial Conduct Authority, and the U.S. Attorney’s office.”

I picked up the satellite phone, gripping the steering wheel with one hand as the Range Rover tore through the freezing darkness toward London.

The seventy-two hours were gone.