Chapter 16 - THE RAT IN THE HALLWAY
Night fell over Beacon Hill once again, bringing a heavy, freezing fog that rolled off the Charles River, cloaking the upper galleries of the estate in thick darkness.
Inside the private study, Roman sat at his mahogany desk, reviewing the tactical layout of Pier 4 on his encrypted laptop. Beside him lay a small, high-frequency signal scanner—a device designed to detect rogue wireless transmissions within a fifty-foot radius.
At 11:45 p.m., the scanner's display flickered. A soft, rhythmic blue light began to pulse on the small LED screen.
Frequency: 433.92 MHz. Transmission origin: 12 feet.
Roman slowly set his reading glasses down on the desk. He did not look around. He kept his eyes on his laptop screen, watching the signal strength increase in real time. Someone was standing directly outside the oak study doors, using a high-gain directional microphone to listen through the heavy wood.
It was Victor.
Victor was no longer just running routine patrols. He was actively attempting to record audio from inside the private suite to deliver to Vance before Thursday's summit.
Roman smiled a cold, dangerous smile. He reached out and pressed a key on his keyboard, activating an audio file pre-programmed into his sound system.
From hidden speakers concealed within the crown molding of the room, a low, ambient recording began to play—the sound of heavy papers turning, the soft clink of a glass against a coaster, and the faint, low rumble of Roman's voice humming an old, obscure classical melody.
While the directional microphone outside absorbed the fake audio footprint, Roman stood up silently from his desk. He walked with ghost-like precision across the Persian rug, making no sound, until he stood directly beside the heavy oak door.
He waited five seconds, letting his breathing drop into absolute synchronization with the room's quiet hum.
Then, with lightning speed, Roman reached out, grabbed the brass door handle, yanked the heavy door inward, and stepped out into the dark gallery.
Victor was caught completely off guard.
He was leaning against the doorframe, wearing his dark suit, a sleek, dish-shaped directional listening device held tightly against his ear. As the door flew open, he stumbled forward, barely catching his balance on the polished hardwood floor.
Before Victor could react, Roman's broad left hand shot out like a steel vise, clamping around Victor's throat and driving him backward against the gallery wall with crushing, terrifying force.
The directional listening device clattered to the floor, its glass dish shattering against the hardwood.
Victor gasped for air, his hands clawing wildly at Roman's wrist, his feet kicking uselessly against the baseboard. His eyes dilated in pure, unadulterated terror as he looked into Roman's face.
Roman did not look angry. He looked like an executioner performing a routine administrative task. He pressed his broad thumb directly against Victor's carotid artery, cutting off the blood flow to his brain while holding him suspended two inches off the floor.
"I warned you, Victor," Roman whispered, his voice smooth, cold, and quiet enough that it didn't travel down the hallway. "I told you what would happen if I caught you lurking outside my door."
Victor's face turned purple, his vision swimming in black spots as he tried to speak, his vocal cords crushed beneath Roman's grip.
"You work for Vance," Roman said, leaning close to Victor's ear. "You think Vance can protect you in my house. You think Vance is powerful because he has money and armed men. But Vance is a coward who hires traitors to do his digging."
Roman shifted his weight, driving Victor higher against the wall until his toes barely touched the floor.
"You have two choices, Victor," Roman whispered, his grey eyes burning into the gasping man's soul. "Choice one: I snap your neck right here, throw your body into the harbor before dawn, and tell Vance you ran off with his money. Choice two: You become my puppet for the next forty-eight hours."
Roman loosened his grip just enough for a thin sliver of air to enter Victor's lungs.
Victor choked, coughing violently, his chest heaving as he clutched Roman's forearm. "Option... option two..." Victor gasped out, tears of sheer pain running down his cheeks. "Option two... Boss..."
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Roman smiled—a dark, terrifying expression that held no mercy. He lowered Victor to the floor, releasing his throat, but kept his broad frame standing inches away, blocking any chance of escape.
"Good choice, Victor," Roman said softly, dusting off his lapels. "Now... pick up your broken toy, go down to your quarters, and call Marcus Vance. Tell him you heard everything through my door. Tell him I am breaking under the pressure... and that I am coming to the summit alone."
