Chapter 8 - The Dawn over Manhattan
The morning sun broke over the East River in shades of pale slate and pewter, burning through the industrial smog of the harbor.
At eight-fifteen, the executive tower of DeLuca Maritime Capital on Water Street was a hive of nervous, predatory tension. Two dozen armed private security guards in charcoal suits stood stationed at the elevator banks, their radios crackling with low-frequency static.
In the fiftieth-floor boardroom, thirty members of the board of directors, institutional investors, and corporate counsel sat around a forty-foot slab of polished black obsidian. At the head of the table, sitting in the high-backed leather chair that had belonged to Julian’s grandfather, sat Vincent Montgomery.
Vincent was thirty-four, impeccably groomed, with slicked-back blonde hair and a bespoke gray double-breasted suit that hid a slight, nervous tremor in his long fingers. He was tapping a gold Montblanc pen against a leather-bound folio containing the liquidation contract for the Brooklyn terminals.
"Gentlemen," Vincent began, his voice projecting the practiced, mournful dignity of an aggrieved brother. "We all share my brother-in-law's profound tragedy. But the market does not pause for human grief. Julian has abandoned his post. He has spent the last forty-eight hours chasing phantom sightings of my late sister in upstate railway depots. His grief has compromised his capacity to lead."
Vincent stood up, turning to face the legal counsel.
"Under Section 12 of the corporate charter, I move that the board vote to declare the chief executive incapacitated, appoint me as interim managing director, and execute the maritime sale to ensure the liquidity of our debt obligations."
"Seconded," murmured an older director in the corner whose offshore accounts had received four hundred thousand dollars from a Macao bank two weeks earlier.
"The secretary will record the—"
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The heavy, soundproof double oak doors at the rear of the boardroom did not open with a polite turn of the brass handle.
They exploded inward with a splintering crash that shattered the decorative jambs, echoing off the obsidian table like an artillery shell.
