Chapter 65 - The Desperate Strike
Damian Sterling’s humiliating blunder at the rail junction went viral across the international financial sector within hours.
Wall Street Laughs as Hedge Fund Scion Buys Charleston Swamp! read the headline on Bloomberg. Financial memes mocked Obsidian Crest’s due diligence failure, and by morning, three major European institutional investors had formally revoked their capital allocations, demanding the immediate liquidation of Damian’s fund.
Cornered, humiliated, and facing absolute career ruin, Damian didn't slink back to Manhattan. Like every narcissist who had come before him, the blow to his ego triggered a reckless, dangerous escalation.
On Thursday afternoon, I was working in my office at the Bennett-Ellis Center on South Battery. The historic mansion was buzzing with life: thirty women from our vocational leadership academy were attending a seminar on small-business financing in the grand hall.
Clara walked into my office carrying a fresh batch of herbal tea. "Maren, the state ethics commission just released the certified report on the Cooper River tracks. Ellis Advisory’s title is completely unassailable. The port authority has officially designated our easement as a permanent municipal reserve."
"That means the rail line is safe forever," I sighed, leaning back in my leather chair with a deep sense of relief.
Before Clara could answer, the building’s emergency alarm shrieked.
A shrill, deafening klaxon echoed through the corridors. The overhead sprinkler system engaged, drenching the historic ceilings as thick, gray smoke began pouring through the central ventilation shafts.
"Fire!" someone screamed from the lower foyer. "The basement is on fire!"
Panic erupted throughout the building. Clara and I rushed into the corridor, guiding the terrified women down the secondary emergency stairwell toward the garden exits. Marcus and our security detail moved with practiced military precision, clearing the hallways and ensuring every single scholar, employee, and visitor evacuated into the courtyard.
Within four minutes, all forty-five occupants were safely assembled on the lawn across South Battery as three Charleston Fire Department engines arrived with sirens screaming.
I stood on the sidewalk, rain and sprinkler water dripping from my hair, watching thick black smoke billowing from the basement windows of the historic carriage house.
Marcus jogged up to me, his tactical radio clutched in his hand, his expression lethal. "Mrs. Bennett, everyone is accounted for. No injuries."
"What caused it, Marcus?" I demanded, my heart pounding violently against my ribs.
"It wasn't an electrical fault," Marcus said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Two incendiary flares were thrown through the ground-level coal chute directly into the server storage room. The fire department contained the blaze before it spread to the main structure, but someone deliberately targeted our digital archive servers."
Before I could speak, Owen’s Range Rover screeched to a halt along the curb. Owen leaped out, discarding his suit jacket as he sprinted across the lawn toward me.
"Maren!" Owen grabbed me by the shoulders, his gray eyes searching my face in frantic, desperate terror before pulling me into a fierce, breathless embrace. "Are you hurt? Is anyone hurt?"
"We’re all safe, Owen," I whispered, holding onto his chest, feeling his heart pounding like a war drum. "Everyone got out."
Marcus stepped forward, holding up a charred, melted plastic canister recovered from the coal chute. "The arsonist dropped this while fleeing through the alley behind Church Street. Our perimeter cameras captured his face."
Owen took the tablet from Marcus. On the screen was high-definition security footage of a man in a black hooded sweatshirt throwing the flares. As the man turned to sprint down the alley, the camera captured his face with absolute clarity.
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It was Tyler Vance—the rogue cousin who had attempted to burn the county archives five years earlier, recently released from state custody on parole.
And sitting in the idling getaway car at the end of the alley, clearly visible through the windshield, was Damian Sterling.
