Chapter 81. The Hostile Takeover

The red folder was a live coal against Sabe’s ribs. They found another temporary refuge—the unlocked storage room of a lakeside sailing club, smelling of damp ropes and mildew. The dawn light, weak and grey, seeped through a high, filthy window, providing just enough illumination.

Sabe laid the folder on a stained workbench. The single, damning page with its embossed emblem and Evelyn’s signature stared up at them. But Anton’s mind, ignited by the cold fury of seeing his own death warrant, was working on a different frequency. The page was a masterpiece of arrogance, but it felt… terminal. A conclusion. The Meridian moved in layers, in contingencies. Would they really leave only this?

He picked up the folder again, feeling its weight. Too heavy for one sheet of paper. He ran his fingers along the interior seam. The cardstock was thick, high-quality. He pressed along the edge, near the spine.

A slight give.

He took Sabe’s knife and, with careful precision, slit the inner lining of the folder.

A second, thinner sheaf of papers, hidden in a glued pocket, slid out onto the bench.

These were not elegant pronouncements. These were operational documents. Financial transfers, encrypted email headers, meeting summaries. And at the top of the stack, a document that made Anton’s blood run cold.

MEMORANDUM OF UNDERSTANDING: ROGERS INDUSTRIES TRANSITION OF CONTROL.

It was dated for tomorrow.

The parties listed were Anton Rogers, Marcus Rogers, and Evelyn Voss as “Interim Steward.” The terms were brutal: In light of Anton’s “unforeseen incapacitation and ongoing legal entanglements,” and to prevent “irreparable market destabilization,” Anton would sign over all voting rights and executive control of Rogers Industries to a newly constituted board chaired by Evelyn. Marcus was named Chief Operations Officer, a titular role. The document was pre-filled with the locations of notaries in Geneva, timestamps for a 48-hour window. It cited clauses in the corporate bylaws and Anton’s own shareholder agreements that allowed for emergency transfer in cases of mental incapacity or criminal indictment.

It was a hostile takeover, dressed in the bland legalese of corporate duty.

Attached were supporting documents: fabricated medical assessments suggesting “acute stress-induced psychosis,” copies of the Interpol alerts for Sabe with annotations highlighting Anton’s “reckless association,” and—the masterstroke—a sworn, notarized affidavit from Marcus detailing Anton’s “paranoid delusions” about a “shadowy conspiracy” and his “violent, erratic behavior” since the death of their father.

Marcus hadn't just betrayed him for money. He had weaponized their shared history, their grief, to paint Anton as a madman. He was providing the narrative that would make the coercion look like a compassionate intervention.

“He’s not just the patsy,” Anton whispered, the pieces locking into a new, more horrifying configuration. “He’s the key witness. Evelyn provides the financial and strategic muscle. The Meridian provides the silent pressure. But Marcus… he provides the plausibility. The grieving brother, forced to make the hard choice to save the family legacy from his unhinged sibling.” He looked up at Sabe, his eyes wide with the enormity of the betrayal. “They’re not just going to kill me. They’re going to erase me. Make my own brother testify that I lost my mind, that I conspired with a fugitive, that I’m a danger to myself and the company. Then they’ll force me to sign it all away, and a week later, I’ll have a tragic ‘relapse’—an accident, a suicide, something quiet. And the world will sigh, thank God Marcus and the steady hand of Evelyn Voss were there to save the company.”

It was cleaner than a bullet. More effective. It neutralized the asset, secured the prize, and left the Meridian’s hands spotless. The termination folder wasn't the plan; it was the alternative plan, if this softer, more legalistic assassination failed.

Sabe was staring at the document, his face a stony mask. He pointed to a footnote on the last page. “Look. The signing is to be facilitated at ‘a neutral, secure location to ensure Mr. Rogers’s well-being.’ The suggested location is a private conference room at the Geneva Freeport.”

Of course. The heart of their operation. Where the prototype exchange would happen tonight. They were consolidating their victories. Steal the future, steal the company, all in one night, in one place.

“The timing,” Anton said, his voice hollow. “They force me to sign tomorrow. After tonight. After the prototype is gone and my credibility is in tatters. They’ll have me detained, declared unfit, and paraded in front of a notary while I’m still reeling from the ‘exposure’ of my bodyguard as a traitor.”

He felt a nausea that had nothing to do with the damp, mildewed air. It was the nausea of being known. Of having your deepest fears—of failure, of madness, of being deemed unworthy of your father’s legacy—coldly excavated and used as the very tools of your destruction.

Sabe finally moved. He gathered the hidden documents, his movements deliberate. “Then we have two objectives tonight, not one.” His voice was like gravel. “Sabotage the exchange. And acquire this.” He held up the Memorandum of Understanding.

“Acquire it? To do what? Destroy it? They’ll have copies.”

“No,” Sabe said, a fierce, calculating light in his eyes. “We’re going to edit it.”

Anton stared at him.

“They’ve built a narrative,” Sabe continued, his mind racing ahead. “Marcus’s affidavit, the medical reports, the legal framework. It’s a story designed to hold up in a boardroom and a courthouse. We can’t just tear it down. We have to rewrite the ending.” He tapped the document. “This says you’re incapacitated. We need it to say something else. We need it to record a different transaction.”

“What transaction?”

“Your voluntary, sober, and fully informed transfer of power… to a new security director, with a mandate to root out corruption and liaise with international authorities.” Sabe’s gaze was unwavering. “We use their own paperwork, their own notary, their own location, to legitimize our move. You sign over emergency powers to someone they can’t control. Someone whose first act will be to expose the conspiracy using the evidence in this room.”

He meant himself. He was proposing that Anton sign what was meant to be his own corporate death warrant, but to cede power to Sabatine Stalker.

“They’ll never allow it,” Anton said. “The notary, the lawyers… they’re all Meridian plants.”

“They will if the alternative is a public, violent scene that blows their entire midnight operation,” Sabe said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “We don’t go to the Freeport to hide. We go to be seen. We turn their ‘secure, neutral location’ into a theater. We have the termination invoice. We have the ledger Leora is about to broadcast. We have Marcus, who is a coward. We walk into that room not as fugitives, but as accusers. We force a new deal, on the spot, with the clock ticking towards their precious exchange.”

It was audacious. Insane. It was turning their own vulnerability—being hunted, being framed—into a form of leverage. A hostage negotiation where they were the hostages, but they held the pin to the grenade.

Anton looked at the cold, clinical language of the memorandum, the trap laid out in Times New Roman. He thought of his father, of the legacy he’d tried to protect, of the empire built on secrets that had now turned cancerous. He thought of Sabe, standing between him and every bullet, both physical and legal.

He had spent a lifetime building walls of control. Now, the only way forward was the ultimate surrender of it.

He met Sabe’s gaze, seeing the absolute, terrifying faith there. Not just in the plan, but in him.

“We’ll need evidence,” Anton said, his CEO mind engaging, adapting. “The invoice. The hidden documents. We need to copy it all. We need to get it to someone outside. A failsafe.”

Sabe nodded. “Leora. We sent her the scans. If we fail, she broadcasts it alongside the ledger. A double blast. If we succeed… we use it as our bargaining chip in the room.”

In the dingy storage room, surrounded by the ghosts of leisure and the stink of decay, they forged a new weapon from the paperwork of their own annihilation. The revelation wasn't just of the plot; it was of the opportunity hidden within its arrogant, over-designed heart.

The hostile takeover was on. But the shareholders were about to get a dramatic, last-minute proxy fight.

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