Chapter 73 - The Override Protocol
"He spent thirty-five years laughing at me," I whispered, rising slowly to my feet while keeping my body positioned between the shattered window and my family. Emily reached up, taking Leo into one arm while her other hand gripped my fingers with unyielding support.
"You don't save him because he's your brother, Brian," Emily said quietly, her green eyes piercing through the gloom of the shattered room. "You save him so Amanda doesn't get to turn you into a monster who lets people drown. And you save him because he’s the only witness who can put her in federal prison for the rest of her natural life."
She was right. If Jason died in the freezing waters off Minot's Ledge, Amanda would wash her hands of the murder, frame the sinking as an unfortunate accident of his own making, and claim the remaining sixty percent of Marcus Harrington's empire through the blind trusts Julian had established before his fall.
"Harris," I said, my voice dropping into absolute ice. "The DOJ mainframe isn't transferring funds to Amanda’s offshore accounts. She was bluffing."
Harris blinked, tapping his ear piece. "Say that again, Harrington? The Boston office just confirmed millions moving out of the reserve accounts."
"They're moving through the *Marseille Ledger* protocol," I countered rapidly, walking toward the tactical laptop sitting on the communications table near the door. "My father, Marcus, was paranoid to the point of insanity. He designed the master accounts so that any sudden exfiltration attempt over fifty million dollars routed through a dummy loop. Amanda thinks she initiated a wire transfer. In reality, she just activated a seventy-two-hour digital quarantine."
I yanked the tablet from the ambulance outside, slamming it down beside Harris's communications officer.
"Look at the screen," I ordered. "The frequency Amanda is using to transmit the scuttle signal isn't an encrypted satellite band. She’s using Marcus’s old marine repeater at the Graves Light station. It operates on an analog civilian emergency band—channel 16, sub-carrier nine."
Harris grabbed his radio operator by the collar. "Patch into Graves Light! Cut the civilian sub-carrier! Jam the remote detonation trigger now!"
The young technician’s fingers flew across the keyboard like lightning. The static on the tablet speaker spiked into a shrill, deafening whine.
On the live video feed, the digital countdown timer beneath Jason’s chair on the sinking yacht flickered frantically: *00:45... 00:44... 00:43...*
The red LED numbers suddenly sputtered, flashed an error prompt, and froze dead at thirty-eight seconds.
On the screen, Jason’s eyes widened through the tear-streaked grime on his face. The thermite charges didn't fire. The bilge pumps groaned, but the scuttle explosive was dead.
From the speaker, Amanda’s voice lost its smooth, aristocratic composure for the first time in her life. A sharp, feral gasp cut across the airwaves.
May you like
*"You miserable, insignificant bastard..."* she hissed, the sound of an idling helicopter turbine roaring to life behind her voice. *"You think you've won? Look out into the harbor, Brian. You haven't stopped the fire. You just decided who burns first."*
The feed cut to black.
