Chapter 28: Collapse

The world did not come to an end with a bang, but with a whisper. A thousand whispers, sighing through the corridors of power like a dry, venomous breeze. In Geneva, Anton's universe was disintegrating molecule by molecule. He was in the center of his penthouse, a space that had always symbolized his omnipotence, and was enduring walls breathing inwards, suffocating him. The quietness was not peaceful; it was the stagnant air prior to the storm blowing through. His phone, which had always been a conduit of international powers, was serving as a paperweight.

His attorneys had gone quiet, a telltale sign that they were penning their resignation letters.

His head of security had suggested tactfully that he "cooperate fully" with the new regime.

The questioning was no longer an internal corporate matter. The Swiss Federal Police, based on the international nature and potential for economic terrorism, had taken the lead. They had frozen the principal corporate accounts of Rogers Industries "subject to clarification of financial irregularities." The shares, which were already bleeding, had plunged into freefall, triggering automatic trading halts. The ticker ROG.L was a flatline on the financial screens.

He had tried to call an emergency board meeting. Three of the twelve had answered the phone. Their tones had been tight-lipped, cryptic. The others were in another, secure conference call with Evelyn Voss, he was sure of it. They were conspiring his destiny behind his back. The rebellion was now out of whispers; it was being drafted in board resolutions and in legalese.

He walked to the bar and poured a whiskey, his hand steady with shock. The amber liquid pulsed with light, a tiny, captive sun. He was watching the empire built by his father, the empire he had built into an international behemoth, being destroyed before his eyes. Not by a rival, but by a tumor from within. By his own chief financial officer. By his own brother. In his own name.

He had followed Sabe's command. The jet, refueled and poised, waited at the high-end Luxwing Aviation strip outside Basel, its pilots bound to secrecy and bribe-enough received in exchange for their silence. It was his last pod of escape. But to get to it meant running a gauntlet of reporters, police, and most likely corporate spies in Evelyn's employ.

He was alone. The CEO, the giant, had disappeared. In his place was a man awaiting the door to knock.

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In the damp, perpetual darkness of the London Tube, Sabatine Stalker was hearing the rumors as well. He'd searched through a crumpled paper. The headline was a masterpiece of destruction: ROGERS INDUSTRIES IN FREE-FALL: CEO IMPLICATED IN PROTOTYPE HEIST.

The article described the "newly found evidence" of Anton's fiscal complicity, the "mounting mystery" of his disappearance, and the board's "serious doubts" about his sanity. The narrative was setting. Anton was being portrayed as the mad genius who had orchestrated his own breakdown, with Sabe playing the role of his hired thug.

Sabe crumpled the paper, the ink seeping into his palms. He had read the scheme in Aegis Zero's files, but watching it unfold with such cold calculation was a different kind of horror. They were killing Anton bit by bit. They were not just taking his company; they were killing him, making him a cautionary tale, a case study.

He had his proof. The Evelyn and Marcus tape was a bombshell. But it was useless if he couldn't deliver it. He was unseen, but Anton was almost there too, and before long there would be no one left to save.

His original plan—to follow the Janus thread to Singapore—was no longer within their means now. By the time Anton located the final buyer, he'd be in a cell or isolation room, and Rogers Industries would be owned by some shadow agency Evelyn worked for.

He had to make contact. Not the quick, rain-drenched phone call on a burner phone. A real meet. He had to present the flash drive to Anton. It was the only way that could trigger the conspiracy.

But the danger was immense. All of Europe's law enforcement agencies had his picture. Section Seven would have all of Anton's known contacts under constant watch. They would be waiting for this. They would be praying for this. A meeting would be an ambush, a perfect trap to apprehend the escaped fugitive and further incriminate the toppled CEO.

He found a hijacked computer in a library and spent an hour browsing the dark web, applying all his skills to probe the electronic fence around Anton. He saw the traps immediately. Faint alerts on Anton's familiar email servers. The giveaway signature of access attempts to his cloud storage. His home and office networks are probably infested with digital listeners. They were all waiting for Sabe to call.

He could not utilize any means familiar to him. He could not send a message. He must be a ghost, not just in flesh, but in method.

A strategy was planned, desperate and wild. It was a move out of his old playbook, an aggressive, high-risk strategy deployed when all other means of communication had been blocked. He needed a cut-out. A completely neutral, unaware third party.

He looked at the Luxwing airstrip. Private, tiny. Fewer security, fewer secrets, but also less vulnerable to penetration.

He spent his last few stolen euros on a cheap, pre-paid cellular phone and an adhesive stamp. He never used the phone. He wrote a single-line note on an empty sheet of paper, in upper case, with his left hand to hide his handwriting.

LUXWING. TONIGHT. TRUST THE PILOT.

He didn't send it. He put it into an envelope and sent it to the head of Luxwing's operations, a man whose name he'd pulled out of their company files. He sent it from a mailbox in a distant suburb, wearing gloves.

It was a thread, amazingly thin. The letter could be intercepted. The director at Luxwing could be in Evelyn's pay. He could just dismiss it as a prank.

But it was the only string he had to his bow.

The second part of the plan was riskier. He needed to get to Basel in person. He was several hundred miles away, without identification, without money, and a face on every TV news desk.

He became a specter of the transportation network. He hopped on a cargo train, huddled in an empty boxcar as it rattled through the blackness. He rode with a truck driver who traveled long distances, spinning a story about a troubled divorce and a lost wallet, hiding behind a hood. He rode on a zigzag route, avoiding central hubs, his nerves screaming at every stop, every patrol car that passed by.

Every mile was a gamble. Every minute, he imagined Anton's world breaking apart even more. The tension was a physical weight, heavier even than the gun pressed against his spine. He was gambling arrest, torture, murder on the hope that one single, encoded message would be read, and that the man out there hadn't already been swallowed up by the machine.

As the truck sped over the Swiss border, the driver jammed the radio. A newsbreak, in crisp German, cut through the din. Sabe's translator brain issued the chilling summary: ".the board of Rogers Industries has officially petitioned temporary stewardship, because of the incapacitation of CEO Anton Rogers."

Incapacitation. They'd used the word. The psychiatric model was falling into place.

Sabe closed his eyes, his head against the cold of the window. Too late. The empire had trembled and collapsed. Mutiny was done.

But he was moving. The flash drive, a hard square heaviness in his pocket, was the evidence. The truth.

He had to believe Anton struggled on. He had to believe that the pilot would get the message. He had to believe that amidst the crumbling, there was a core of something unbeatable.

It was all he was wagering on one solitary, final chance move. It was the final play remaining on the board. Check, or checkmate.

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