Chapter 9 - The Seattle Gambit
The private elevator ascended smooth as silk to the forty-fourth floor of the Rainier Tower in downtown Seattle.
Sloan adjusted the collar of her cream-colored silk blouse beneath a tailored black blazer. Beside her, Dominic Vance adjusted his cufflinks. He looked like royalty; she looked like his high-powered executive consultant. In reality, she was his secret weapon.
"His name is Victor Kase," Vance said quietly as the floor indicator lit up. "He controls the docks from Tacoma to the Canadian border. He’s cold, arrogant, and considers himself an intellectual. He claims he wants a peaceful merger of our logistics networks."
"And what do you think he wants?" Sloan asked.
"I think he wants to put a bullet in my head and take my territory," Vance replied coldly. "Which is why you are here."
The elevator chimed, opening into a breathtaking glass penthouse overlooking the dark waters of Puget Sound. Sitting at a massive glass desk was Victor Kase—a thin man in his late fifties with silver hair, wearing sharp gold-rimmed glasses and drinking vintage red wine.
Four heavily built guards in black suits stood posted around the perimeter of the room, their hands folded neatly in front of them.
"Dominic!" Kase called out, standing up with a warm, welcoming smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You made it. And you brought a guest."
"This is Sloan Mercer, my senior strategic advisor," Vance said smoothly, walking over and taking a leather armchair across from the desk. Sloan took the chair right beside him.
Kase’s eyes swept over Sloan, dismissive and amused. "A strategic advisor? She looks a bit young to be navigating a multi-hundred-million-dollar logistics merger, Dominic."
"Miss Mercer has a unique talent for risk assessment," Vance said, crossing his legs casually. "Let's talk terms, Victor."
For the next twenty minutes, Kase laid out a detailed, sophisticated plan for sharing shipping lanes, laundering profits through foreign agricultural firms, and dividing port authorities. He spoke eloquently, presenting precise charts and financial projections on a large digital screen.
On the surface, it was a dream deal—a peaceful arrangement that would make both men hundreds of millions without a single drop of blood spilled.
Vance listened silently, then turned his head slightly toward Sloan. "Sloan? What does your risk assessment say?"
Victor Kase chuckled softly. "Dominic, surely you aren't actually asking—"
"He's not merging with you," Sloan interrupted, her voice cutting through the room like a quiet bell.
The room went dead silent. Kase’s smile vanished instantly.
"Excuse me?" Kase said, his tone sharpening.
"Your speech was very well-rehearsed, Mr. Kase," Sloan said calmly, sitting back in her chair and crossing her hands over her knee. "But your body gave you away three minutes ago."
Kase sneered. "Is this a joke?"
"You're right-handed," Sloan pointed out, pointing a finger toward his desk. "Your fountain pen, your wine glass, and your tablet are all on the right side of your desk. But your right foot has been tucked beneath your chair the entire time, while your left foot is planted flat, pointing directly toward the private executive washroom behind you."
Kase froze.
"More importantly," Sloan continued, her eyes scanning the four guards around the room, "guards three and four aren't watching Dominic’s hands. They're watching the clock on the wall behind us. They've checked it five times in twenty minutes. They aren't waiting for us to sign a contract. They're waiting for a specific time."
Sloan picked up her phone, checking the clock. "It's 4:28 PM. The shifts for the harbor police change at 4:30 PM, leaving a ten-minute blind spot in coast guard radar over the bay."
She looked straight into Kase’s pale, frozen face.
"There's no merger," Sloan said softly. "In two minutes, your men are supposed to shoot us, slide our bodies into shipping containers, and drop us into the Sound during the radar blackout."
Vance didn't even look surprised. He simply reached inside his coat, pulled out a thick cigar, and lit it with a golden Zippo.
"You always were an impatient bastard, Victor," Vance said softly, blowing a plume of blue smoke into the air.
Kase’s eyes went wild with rage. "Kill them!" he screamed, reaching for a button under his desk.
Before his guards could even touch their holsters, the floor-to-ceiling glass windows behind Kase exploded inward in a shower of safe-shatter crystals.
Three flashbang grenades bounced across the polished floor, detonating with deafening booms and blinding light.
Marcus and Vance’s elite assault team swung through the shattered windows on tactical ropes, taking down Kase’s four guards in less than five seconds with non-lethal stun rounds.
Kase fell backward out of his chair, scrambling across the floor in terror as glass crunched beneath his expensive leather shoes.
Vance stood up slowly, stepping over the groaning guards, and stopped over Kase. He looked down at the disgraced mob boss with cold contempt.
"You should have hired better advisors, Victor," Vance said quietly.
He turned to Sloan, who was standing calm and unbothered amidst the smoke and broken glass, brushing a small speck of dust off her blazer.
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"Excellent work, Miss Mercer," Vance said, offering her his arm. "Shall we head back to Portland? I believe we have a celebration dinner to attend."
"Only if we go somewhere with good water service," Sloan replied with a wink.
