Chapter 8 - The Shadow Over Ashworth Hall
The penthouse boardroom of Ashworth Tower was a cathedral of dark mahogany, Italian marble, and floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the storm-tossed harbor.
Around the twenty-foot table sat twelve men and women in tailored suits—the board of directors controlling sixty percent of the state’s shipping, transit, and private security contracts. At the head of the table sat Marcus Ashworth, immaculately groomed in a charcoal pinstripe suit, sipping twenty-year-old scotch with an easy, victorious smile.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Marcus said, raising his crystal glass, "it is with a heavy heart that I must confirm the tragic disappearance of my beloved nephew, Gabriel. The harbor authorities believe his vessel was lost during the gale last night. Under section four of our charter, his voting shares revert to the senior director."
He set the glass down, resting his manicured hands on the mahogany table. "I move that the board ratify my appointment as permanent Chairman and Chief Executive Officer."
"Seconded," an elderly director murmured, nodding nervously.
"All in favor—" Marcus began.
BAM!
The heavy double oak doors of the boardroom blew inward with tremendous force, splintering against the marble walls.
Marcus leaped to his feet, knocking his crystal glass onto the carpet, shattering it into pieces. The board members shrieked in terror as four private security guards drew their weapons, pointing them toward the doorway.
Stepping through the shattered entrance was Gabriel Ashworth.
He walked with an easy, measured stride, his tailored suit pristine, a dark trench coat draped over his broad shoulders. Beside him walked Marin Doyle, her chin held high, holding a thick leather dossier under her arm.
"You're calling the vote a bit early, Uncle Marcus," Gabriel’s voice boomed across the room, rich, mocking, and cold as glacial ice. "I don't recall tendering my resignation."
Marcus went as white as a freshly bleached sheet. His knees trembled visibly against the conference table. "Gabriel... you... this is impossible..."
"Drop the guns," Gabriel commanded, not even looking at the four guards.
From the corridor behind him, twenty armed dockworkers and veteran security officers loyal to Gabriel’s father stepped into the room, their weapons trained directly on Marcus’s private guards. Outnumbered and outmatched, the four guards slowly holstered their weapons and stepped back against the glass walls.
May you like
Gabriel walked to the head of the table, stopped six inches from Marcus, and rested both hands on the polished wood, leaning forward.
"You dug a hole four feet deep, Marcus," Gabriel whispered, loud enough for every board member to hear. "You should have dug it six."
