“That’s the best bit. There isn’t one. Once you’re in, you’re in. Just… don’t fail.”
“What happens if you do?”
DeLuca’s gaze goes cold. “Don’t.”
Fair. With all the tools available through this arrangement, a man would be a fool not to ensure success.
I stir myself. “What time is this meeting?”
He checks his watch. “Fifteenminutes. We can wander in now.” He drains his whisky and stands, and I follow him deeper into the house. Before a large double door with two security guards unsmiling before it, DeLuca turns left, up one side of the staircase that’s mirrored on the other, taking us two floors higher, then through into a viewing gallery overlooking a large room beneath. It’s mostly in shadow, a few dim lights strategically placed, and some of the seats are already occupied. As we pass, DeLuca nods to one or two, shakes hands with others, introduces me to a few. It’s quick, quiet, and before long we take two chairs at the far end of the row.
The other seats fill up over the next few minutes, then as the hour approaches, we all stand. Very ceremonial and a little stuffy, like we’re Masons, not a ruthless corporation.
Seven men and one woman walk into the room below, taking seats around the large table. Two I recognize; the CFO of Apex Advanced, our sister tech company, and the CEO of Northbridge Capital. Neither takes the head seat, and I don’t know the man who does.
We all sit down and the meeting commences. Largely a run-through of performance of the previous quarter, given by representatives of the various organizations. DeLuca leans in occasionally, providing me with a name for the speaker in a quiet murmur.
To say Cadrion Strategic Holding’s growth is strong is an understatement. The group’s finances top eighteen billion dollars, and that doesn’t includeNorthbridge’s assets under management. Every report presented is a record of success, and when Adrian Chambers, the CEO of Northbridge, stands up, he talks through a massive project at Ironvale Capital, and Summit Ridge gets an honorable mention. DeLuca nudges me with his elbow and gives me a satisfied nod.
The CFO of Apex Advanced is next, and DeLuca murmurs his name as he has the others. “John Wainwright.”
“—twelve percent growth and I’m pleased to say that the Colombian government has finally signed off on the defense contract. That will be reflected in next quarter’s figures.” He pauses, shifting his weight. “I regret to inform you that Brussels has not accepted our tender for the encrypted mobile rollout for the EU Commission and parliament.”
A stir runs through those watching, and DeLuca stills beside me.
One of the other board members leans forward. “That is unfortunate. We were banking on having access to that infrastructure.”
“Indeed,” another board member says coldly, his voice carrying clearly to the silent gallery. “This isn’t merely the loss of that particular contract, but the impact it has on others.”
“Lukas Van Wyk,” DeLuca tells me, his tone flat. “Officially works for Northbridge, but we never see him.”
Wainwright straightens his back. “The loss is regrettable. We offer compensation to the Company.”
“Who was on point?” the man at the head of the table asks. It’s the first time he’s spoken, and DeLuca leans in.
“Bastien Fournier,” he murmurs. It’s not a name I know; he’s not publicly on the board of any of the businesses represented.
“Philippe Dubois,” Wainwright replies. He hesitates. “His prior track record is impeccable.”
“We are aware of his record,” Fournier replies. “Yet failure is not acceptable.” He leans back in his chair. “Have him make amends.”
A man in the gallery opposite stands up, tugs his jacket straight, then walks with his head high to the door. Those he passes don’t look up.
It takes a minute for him to make his way to the main room, the double doors opening to admit him, and he walks to the table where the board waits. He stops ten feet short, bowing from the waist, head down.
From inside his jacket, Lukas Van Wyk pulls a knife, flicking open a short blade in the shape of a claw. It curves wickedly to an elongated point, the dim light reflecting off its steel.
“Karambit,” DeLuca murmurs, half to himself more than to me, and I assume it’s the type of blade. Unless Van Wyk’s named his knife.
Van Wyk lays it on the table and slides it sideways. It travels from hand to hand, deliberate and unhurried, like this is familiar. It comes to rest before where Dubois stands.
He steps forward, placing his lefthand on the table, fingers spread, and looks up at Fournier.
“Proceed.”
Dubois visibly braces himself, then sets the curve of the blade against the pinkie finger of his hand. There’s a moment’s hesitation, then he presses down hard, the curved blade rolling into the cut. The knife is sharp. Dubois hisses in a breath, his left arm quivering, bracing himself on the table for a long moment.
There’s enough light to see the blood on the polished surface, a dark pool spreading and gleaming. His severed finger sits within it.
