Olga frowned. "I gave the ten billion dollars to charity, Jack. The money is gone. Interpol has the ledgers."
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Jack let out a bitter, hollow laugh, looking up at her with tears streaming down his face. "You really think it was that simple? Victor is the Architect, Olga. He designed the global banking grid. He didn't lose the ten billion."
👉 "He intercepted the wire transfers the moment you hit the kill-switch in Geneva," Jack revealed, his voice trembling, "which means Victor currently possesses all ten billion dollars, and he’s using it to build something catastrophic."
Olga sat frozen, her brilliant mind racing to calculate the sheer magnitude of Jack's revelation.
When she triggered The Widow’s Bite in Elias Thorne's vault, she had watched the terminal route ten billion dollars to a thousand different global charities. But if Victor Kaelen—Principal Davies—had intercepted the digital routing nodes, those charities received nothing. Victor had hijacked her biometric signature and funneled the greatest illicit fortune in human history directly into his own phantom accounts.
"He played me," Olga whispered, a rare spark of genuine shock breaking her composed facade.
"He plays everyone," Jack croaked, looking frantically at the heavy steel door. "Victor is a ghost. He doesn't exist on paper. If he has the money, no government on earth can touch him. Olga, you have to leave the country. If he tried to kill you last night, it means you're the only person left alive who can legally authorize a recall of those funds. Run."
Olga stood up, her white trench coat immaculate against the grim, gray walls of the prison. She felt no pity for Jack Vance, but he had finally given her the key she needed to unlock the final door.
"Thank you, Jack," Olga said coldly. "I'll ensure Blake remains in minimum security."
She turned toward the door and pressed the intercom button to summon the guard. The heavy steel door clicked and swung open.
But it wasn't the regular prison guard who stepped into the room.
It was a massive, heavily tattooed inmate dressed in an oversized orange jumpsuit. He held a sharpened metal shank wrapped in bloody athletic tape.
Olga’s ballet-trained reflexes kicked in instantly. She lunged backward, putting the steel table between herself and the attacker. But the inmate didn't even look at her. His eyes were locked dead onto Jack Vance.
"The Architect sends his regards," the inmate grunted.
Before Jack could even scream, the inmate lunged over the table and drove the metal shank brutally into Jack’s neck. Jack collapsed backward, choking on his own blood, his handcuffed hands desperately clawing at the wound.
The inmate pulled the shank free and turned his dead, lifeless eyes toward Olga.
Olga didn't freeze. She grabbed the heavy metal chair she had been sitting in and swung it with all her might, smashing the steel legs directly into the attacker’s knees. The giant man roared in pain, buckling sideways. Olga didn't wait to finish the fight. She vaulted over the bleeding body of her adopted father and sprinted out into the prison corridor.
The hallway was chaotic. Sirens were blaring, and guards were rushing toward the visitor sector, completely unaware of the assassination that had just occurred right under their noses. Victor Kaelen had infiltrated a federal maximum-security prison with terrifying ease.
Olga burst through the front doors of the penitentiary and into the blinding daylight, her heart hammering against her ribs. She was entirely alone. The FBI thought she was a hero, Interpol thought the syndicate was destroyed, but the true monster was just getting started.
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She needed an ally. Someone inside the federal system who had the clearance to track international shadow funds, but who wasn't corrupted by Victor's endless payroll.
👉 Olga pulled out her encrypted phone and dialed the only man who had seen the true depth of the syndicate in Geneva: the ruthless, silver-haired Interpol Commander who had arrested Elias Thorne.
"Commander Cross," Olga spoke the moment the encrypted line clicked open. She stood in the shadow of a rusted billboard off the North Carolina highway, watching a fleet of police cruisers scream past her toward the prison.
“Miss Vance,” Commander Marcus Cross’s deep, British accent echoed through the speaker. “To what do I owe the pleasure? I assumed you were enjoying your well-earned retirement in Manhattan.”
"Jack Vance was just assassinated in federal custody," Olga stated bluntly. "And the ten billion dollars I supposedly routed to global charities last month? It never arrived. It was intercepted."
The line went dead silent. Marcus Cross was a legendary Interpol agent—a man who had spent twenty years hunting the Thorne Syndicate. The realization that the crowning achievement of his career was a massive illusion hit him like a physical blow.
“Where are you?” Cross finally asked, his tone shifting from polite to lethal.
"Charlotte," Olga replied. "But I won't be here long. I need a secure terminal with unrestricted access to the SWIFT global banking network. I have a name: Victor Kaelen. He engineered the theft."