The Next Billionaire

Chapter 3: The Bullet and the Backstab

The cheers in the boardroom had barely settled when the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall—heavy, urgent, deliberate.

Frank backed away from the terminal, still breathless from the high of cracking the code. His mind buzzed with adrenaline, with hope. This was it—his redemption.

Winston Wrenford turned to him, stunned. “You… You really did it.”

“I told you,” Frank said quietly.

One of the board members clapped him on the back. “Son, you just saved a multi-billion dollar company.”

But across the room, Corbin stared coldly at Frank. No applause. No congratulations. Just a phone in his hand and a look that could slice glass.

---

Outside the WrenTech building, a sleek black van sat parked by the curb. Inside, a man in tactical gear adjusted the scope of a silenced rifle. On his earpiece, a voice crackled.

“Advance.”

The assassin stepped out of the van, blending into the crowd. He moved with precision toward the executive wing, his rifle concealed in a guitar case. The target was simple: eliminate Winston Wrenford—quietly.

---

Inside, Ella burst into the boardroom. “Dad!” she gasped, “I just heard—Frank actually—”

She stopped short, seeing Frank at the center of attention.

“You did it,” she whispered.

Frank smiled at her. For the first time in what felt like years, her eyes weren’t filled with pity—but admiration.

Winston pointed to Frank. “This young man is the reason we’re not filing for bankruptcy today. And according to our terms—”

“You can’t be serious,” Corbin snapped.

“Oh, I’m deadly serious,” Winston said. “I made a vow. Whoever cracks this code leads the company forward.”

Corbin’s voice sharpened. “This janitor—this nobody—can’t just waltz in here and take the reins of WrenTech!”

“Would you rather the company be sold to foreign investors?” Winston snapped. “He saved us. That’s all that matters.”

Frank stepped forward. “I don’t want to run the company alone. I just want to help. I have ideas—”

“You don’t get to speak,” Corbin hissed.

Ella stepped between them. “Yes, he does.”

A silence settled, electric and dangerous.

Then—

CRASH.

The sound of breaking glass. A single suppressed gunshot shattered the moment.

Winston gasped—his shoulder exploding in blood.

Screams erupted.

Frank ducked, pulling Ella down with him. Board members scrambled for cover as more glass rained from above.

“Sniper!” someone shouted.

Chaos.

Frank spotted Corbin slipping toward the door in the confusion, his phone still in hand.

“Security!” Winston roared from the floor, clutching his shoulder.

Frank’s mind raced. This wasn’t random. This was planned. Corbin was making his move.

Frank bolted after him.

---

Corbin ran down the hallway like a man on fire, ditching his phone into a waste bin and pulling off his blazer. He moved fast, cutting through the staff hallway toward the parking garage.

Frank followed, heart pounding.

As Corbin rounded a corner, he slammed straight into a uniformed guard.

“Mr. Corbin—!”

Without hesitation, Corbin punched the guard in the throat, grabbed his taser, and shoved him into a wall.

Frank reached the scene seconds later, too late to stop him.

The guard groaned on the floor. “He’s… he’s heading for the exit…”

Frank didn’t think—he sprinted after him.

---

In the parking garage, Corbin reached his black sports car and threw open the door. But just as he slid into the seat—

“Stop!” Frank shouted.

Corbin turned, startled.

“You tried to have him killed!” Frank yelled. “Why? You’d risk everything—just to take control?”

Corbin smirked. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

“I understand enough,” Frank growled.

Corbin stepped out of the car, slowly, keeping his hands visible. “This company is too valuable to be led by janitors and idealists. Wrenford was weak. You just made it worse.”

Frank balled his fists.

“You think I did this for money?” Corbin hissed. “I did this for power. Control. Something a mop boy like you will never understand.”

Frank charged him.

The two collided violently, slamming into the side of the car. Corbin swung the taser, but Frank ducked and drove his knee into Corbin’s ribs. The older man grunted, then caught Frank’s shirt and slammed him onto the concrete.

“You should’ve stayed in your lane,” he snarled.

Frank kicked his legs up, catching Corbin in the chest and sending him backward. He grabbed the taser, turned it on—and fired.

Corbin collapsed in a twitching heap.

Frank stood, panting, just as security poured into the garage.

“He planned the hit!” Frank shouted. “Get him! Check his phone. The assassin is still out there!”

---

Meanwhile, on a nearby rooftop, the sniper packed up swiftly. His comms were dead. Plan aborted.

But before he left, he opened a small metal case. Inside: a dossier marked “FRANK SUTTON.”

New orders.

New target.

As paramedics wheeled Winston away and police took Corbin into custody, Frank stood in the center of it all—no longer just a janitor, but a marked man.

And somewhere, high above the city, a second finger hovered over a second trigger.