Chapter 5 - The Fall of the House of Sullivan
By Monday morning, the executive boardroom on the seventy-fourth floor of the Blackridge Freight tower was packed to capacity.
Twelve senior directors, six regional vice presidents, and three corporate attorneys sat around the massive black obsidian table.
At 8:55 AM, the double doors swung open, and Victor Sullivan strode into the room. He looked exhausted, his hair unkempt, clutching a leather briefcase as if it were a life raft, his arrogant swagger entirely replaced by frantic, sweaty desperation.
He took his seat at the center of the table, looking across at Caleb, who sat at the head in his charcoal suit, calm, unbothered, sipping his black coffee with two ice cubes.
"Good morning, gentlemen," Victor announced, his voice cracking slightly. "Before we begin the formal agenda, I move for an immediate vote of no confidence in the current chairmanship—"
The heavy boardroom doors opened once more.
Two armed federal marshals in sterile tactical gear walked into the room, followed by Special Agent Raymond Callahan of the FBI’s Securities Fraud Task Force.
The entire boardroom erupted into shocked murmurs.
Special Agent Callahan walked straight down the center aisle, stopping twelve inches from Victor Sullivan’s chair. He pulled a folded legal document from his breast pocket and slapped it onto the obsidian wood with a concussive thud.
"Victor Sullivan," Agent Callahan announced, his voice cutting through the silent room like a broadsword. "You are under federal arrest for Securities Fraud, Unregistered Accumulation of Defense-Critical Infrastructure Assets, and Wire Fraud."
Victor’s face drained of every drop of color. He stood up so fast his chair tipped backward, crashing onto the carpeted floor with a loud thud.
"This is an outrage!" Victor shrieked, his hands shaking violently as the federal marshals stepped forward, clicking heavy steel transport chains around his wrists. "Caleb! You can't do this! This is a corporate dispute!"
"This isn't a corporate dispute, Victor," Caleb said smoothly, rising from his chair, buttoning his jacket. "This is what happens when you bring a knife to a slaughterhouse."
As the federal marshals dragged the screaming, sobbing executive from the boardroom, the remaining directors sat in absolute, paralyzed terror, entirely subdued by the absolute, undisputed authority of Caleb Voss.
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Caleb looked around the table, his slate-gray eyes resting on each executive in turn.
"The meeting is adjourned," Caleb commanded. "Send your quarterly reports to Miss Reed. She'll decide if they're worth my time."
