Chapter 412
Chapter 412:
Isolde opened her briefcase and laid a series of complex blueprints across his cluttered desk. “I need twenty tons,” she said, tapping the center of the schematic. “Aerospace grade. Absolutely zero impurities p>
Kowalski leaned over the desk, his heavy brow furrowing as he worked through the math. “I can do it,” he said slowly. “But I don’t work with the big conglomerates. They squeeze too tight. They care about margins, not metal p>
Isolde looked him dead in the eye. “This isn’t for a conglomerate,” she said, her voice dropping to a hard whisper. “This is for Carson Dynamics. My company p>
Kowalski straightened up. He looked at her face — really looked this time. A flicker of recognition crossed his features, connecting the face to a name he had only seen in passing business journals.
𝗥e𝘢𝖽 wit𝗁𝘰𝘂𝘁 𝘪𝗇𝘵е𝘳𝘳uр𝗍𝗶оnѕ 𝗈𝗇
“Carson,” he mused, crossing his massive arms. “The one who used to be a Lancaster? I heard some things p>
“Rumors don’t build planes, Jim,” Isolde replied, her expression completely flat. “Engineering does p>
The silence in the glass office was broken by a sharp electronic trill.
Isolde pulled out her phone. The caller ID read: Belle Escobar.
She set it on the desk and tapped the speaker button.
“Just wanted to call and thank you for the Leland lead, Isolde.” Belle’s voice filled the small room — shrill, breathless, and dripping with smug satisfaction. “We are already processing the shipment. You are done p>
Isolde stared at the glowing screen. Her pulse did not elevate.
“Enjoy the victory lap, Belle,” she said, her voice a terrifying calm. “Don’t trip p>
She reached out and ended the call. The screen went dark.
Kowalski raised a thick, bushy eyebrow. “Leland? That guy sells pot metal wrapped in tinfoil. It’ll shatter under pressure p>
“She doesn’t know that,” Isolde said, slipping the phone back into her pocket. “She only knows she beat me to the contract p>
Kowalski stared at her for a long second. Then a deep, booming laugh erupted from his chest and rattled the glass walls of the office.
“You played her,” he said, shaking his head.
He reached into a drawer, pulled out a standard vendor contract, and slammed it onto the desk. “I like you,” he said, a dangerous glint in his eye. “You are dangerous.” He tapped the signature line with a thick, grease-stained finger. “Standard rate. No conglomerate tax. Sign here p>
Isolde pulled the silver pen from her pocket and leaned over the desk. The ink flowed smoothly across the paper.
The real supply chain was secured.
The InnoTech factory floor in Queens was a stark contrast to the gritty reality of Ohio.
It was bright, sterile, and aggressively expensive. The concrete floors were polished to a mirror shine.
Belle Escobar walked the elevated metal catwalk in a pristine white hard hat that looked as though it had never seen a speck of dust. Daron McKnight followed closely behind her, clutching a digital tablet.
Down below, massive automated machines were slicing through thick plates of Leland alloy, the metal gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights.