THEY HUNTED THE WRONG MAN

CHAPTER 10

For seventy-two hours, they had been operating in the dark, dancing on the edge of a blade. The estate remained a frozen asset, a billion-dollar prize held in bureaucratic limbo, and Fitch—the only honest man in the oversight office—had been erased as if he had never existed. 

Conrad Veil’s reach wasn't merely extensive; it was systemic. He didn't just have the city’s politicians in his pocket; he had the architecture of the city itself tuned to his frequency.

Idris sat at the mahogany table, staring at a wall of monitors. Sera didn’t stop working for a second, her fingers tracing the digital footprint of the fraud. Beside them, Walter sat in his armchair, a frail, ghostly figure, his eyes tracking the frantic pace of the room with an unsettling, detached stillness.

"Let’s audit what we have," Idris said, his voice dropping into a steady, calm tone. "We have the drive. It’s devastating, and it’s valid. But it’s only a weapon if it reaches a hand that hasn't been bought. We have the infrastructure board seat—it’s dormant, but it’s real, and it’s legally ours. We have Derek Lavier, currently hiding in a hotel in the Wards under an Ironwall alias, terrified but ready to testify."

He tapped the table. "And we have me. Conrad looked at me three nights ago and filed me under non-threat. That’s the only reason I’m still breathing. He moves against threats he can see, but he doesn't understand what a man from the Wards looks like when he has three billion dollars and absolutely nothing left to lose."

Idris began to move. He initiated the refiling of Ironwall Security, burying its core identity within the tortuous legal shell of the Reiss Foundation.

It was like a digital ghost, untouchable and hidden in plain sight. He secured Derek’s testimony, transforming him from a frightened witness into a formally documented asset.

He bypassed the city’s compromised oversight infrastructure entirely, rerouting the drive’s contents directly to the Federal Property Fraud Division—a move that would bypass local politics like a bullet through a paper wall.

Finally, he turned to the dormant infrastructure board seat. He picked up the secure line, the weight of the moment pressing into his palm. When the administrator answered, Idris stated his name and his claim. The silence that followed was heavy with the weight of decades.

"The last time that seat was activated was 1987," the administrator said, his voice a dry rasp of history. "Do you understand what activating it means?"

"It means every development contract in this city above fifty million dollars needs my signature to proceed," Idris replied, his eyes cold. "Including the ones Conrad Veil has pending."

The line went dead.

By 11:00 PM, the confirmation arrived. Sera gasped, her posture collapsing into her chair as she read the terminal

 "The federal filing was received. It’s registered. They can't archive it, they can't reassign it, and they certainly can't bury it. It is entirely outside Conrad’s reach. A response is expected within ninety-six hours."

Idris felt a sudden, sharp clarity. They had bridged the gap! They had finally moved the board into a position where Conrad would have to play the game on their terms. He nodded to Sera, the first time he had allowed himself to exhale in days.

Then, his phone buzzed against the hard surface of the table—a short, biting vibration.

He picked it up, expecting an update from Derek. Instead, it was an unknown number. He frowned, opening the message. It was a photo and a brief string of text. The words were simple, cutting through the silence of the room like a rough edge: You should know this.

He opened the photo and his breath seized.

It was a candid, high-resolution shot taken through a tinted window. It showed a private dining room, the kind that smelled of expensive cigar smoke and old money. 

At the head of the table sat Walter Reiss. Across from him, smiling, was no other person than…Conrad Veil?

They were leaning toward one another in an intimate, conspiratorial gesture, their faces lit by the warm, amber glow of a chandelier.

The timestamp in the corner of the photo was from that afternoon.

Idris felt the blood drain from his face. He looked up at Walter, who remained draped in his blanket, his expression as unreadable as the surface of a frozen lake.

All day, while Idris had been fighting the federal war, while Sera had been dismantling the city’s bureaucracy to reclaim this estate, the old man had been orchestrating a separate reality.

He stared at the photo, his heart hammering against his ribs, but his hand remained rock-steady. He didn't shout, even though he wanted to. He could have accused and challenged Walter right there on the spot, but he had learned something in this new world: Patience can make or maim.

He simply typed a single word back to the unknown number: When?

The reply flickered onto the screen in seconds, a cold confirmation of his worst fears:

This isn't the first meeting. Walter and Conrad have been meeting privately for months. I work in that building. I've seen it four times. I think you need to ask your old man exactly what he's been giving away—and to whom.

Idris’s heart sank to his stomach.