Chapter 845
Sitting in the back seat, looking like a trapped animal, was a young man with disheveled hair and terrified eyes. He wore a hoodie pulled low, but there was no mistaking the family resemblance.
“Travis Tate,” Skye breathed.
Travis flinched as she said his name. He looked from Skye to Alistair, his hands trembling in his lap.
“The prodigal son,” Julian drawled, tapping his cane on the asphalt. “Found him trying to buy a fake passport at the docks. He claims he wants to make a deal.”
Alistair stepped forward, his hand instinctively moving toward the gun holstered beneath his jacket. “Or he’s a suicide bomber sent to finish what Bianca started.”
“I checked him,” Julian said, his voice losing its playful edge. “He’s clean. Physically, at least. Mentally? He’s a wreck.”
Skye walked up to the car window and looked Travis in the eye. He didn’t look like the arrogant boy she had manipulated weeks ago. He looked broken.
“Why are you here, Travis?” she asked, her voice cold.
Travis swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Because I don’t want to die,” he whispered. “And you’re the only one who can stop her.”
“Her?” Skye asked.
𝗧h𝖾 𝗯𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗿𝗲a𝖽i𝘯𝗴 𝖾𝘅𝘱𝖾𝗿𝘪eոс𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗴𝗮𝘭𝘯𝗼𝘃е𝗹𝘴.𝖼𝗈𝗆
“Celeste,” Travis said, the name sounding like a curse. “She’s cleaning house. And I’m next.”
Skye straightened up and exchanged a look with Alistair. The pieces were falling into place — Lucian’s intel, Thomas’s confession, Travis’s fear. “Bring him,” she said, turning back toward the estate. “We have work to do.”
The library of the Vance Estate was a masterpiece of intimidation. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves loomed over the room, filled with leather-bound volumes that smelled of history and judgment. A fire crackled in the hearth, but it did little to chase away the chill that seemed to radiate from the man sitting behind the massive oak desk.
Julian Vance watched Travis Tate with the dispassionate curiosity of a scientist observing a specimen under a microscope. He took a sip of dark red wine, the crystal glass catching the firelight.
Travis sat on a low velvet sofa in the center of the room, hunched over and clutching a glass of water with both hands as if it were an anchor keeping him from drifting away. His knuckles were white.
Skye paced in front of the fireplace. She had changed into a sharp black pantsuit, her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. The vulnerable woman at the airfield was gone; the CEO of Oracle Holdings had taken her place.
“Give me one reason,” Skye said, her voice cutting through the silence, “why I shouldn’t hand you over to Lucian. He has a very creative approach to traitors.”
Travis flinched at the name. “I can help you! I know Celeste’s plan. I know what she’s doing to Kensington Global.”
“We know she’s selling assets,” Alistair said from the shadows in the corner. He was leaning against a bookshelf, cleaning his gun. The rhythmic snick-snick of the slide was a subtle form of psychological torture. “That’s not news.”