Chapter 44
Midnight descended over Vienna, cloaking the baroque domes of the Belvedere Palace in a dense, freezing mist. Beyond the wrought-iron gates, the grand palace grounds were cordoned off by private security contractors in dark overcoats, their thermal scopes sweeping the frosted gravel paths.
In a darkened surveillance van parked three blocks away, Vance checked the timers on two military-grade EMP emitters. "The perimeter is locked down by a private Austrian energy security firm. If you step through those gates, Carter, you have exactly four minutes before the local tactical units respond to any gunfire."
Carter adjusted his charcoal wool overcoat, concealing the ceramic-polymer sidearm beneath his lapel. "Four minutes is all we need to end a thirty-year nightmare."
Dylan stepped up from the rear of the van, his face pale but his eyes burning with an unfamiliar, steady resolve. "I'm going with you, Carter."
Carter turned to his brother. "Dylan, you know what he wants from you. If you walk in there, he will drain your blood to unlock that Liechtenstein vault."
"I know," Dylan said, his voice quiet, devoid of the theatrical arrogance that had defined his youth. "I spent my whole life being a coward, Carter. I let Ray treat me like a prince while he kicked you like a dog. If I die in that palace, at least I die fighting the man who ruined both of our lives."
Shelby stepped up to Carter, pressing a sleek, brushed-aluminum USB drive into his palm. "The Cerberus worm is loaded. The moment this drive connects to Charles's terminal, his entire financial network self-destructs across six continents. Be careful, Carter."
Carter kissed her gently. "Wait for my signal."
Carter and Dylan walked side by side through the monumental iron gates of the Belvedere. Two armed guards frisked them aggressively, confiscating Carter’s sidearm but completely missing the thumb drive concealed inside the hollowed mechanical casing of his wristwatch.
The towering oak doors of the grand library swung open.
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The cavernous hall was illuminated by a solitary crystal chandelier casting long, dancing shadows across miles of leather-bound volumes. Seated in a high-backed mahogany wheelchair at the far end of the room was Charles Millard. He wore an immaculate three-piece tweed suit, an oxygen cannula resting beneath his nose, his aged hand resting on the head of an enormous black Doberman pinscher.
Charles lifted his sharp, predatory gray eyes, a thin, aristocratic smile curling his lips. "Welcome home, Carter. Welcome to the real family business."
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