Her voice was steady despite her heart hammering against her ribs. "My background is in forensic accounting and liability mitigation."
"We don't need a forensic accountant," Veronica snapped. We need a miracle. We have 48 hours to come up with $100 million to pay the bondholders or this company goes into receivership.
And since Silas just blew up our only lifeline, I suggest we focus on drafting his resignation letter. We aren't resigning, Silas said. Elena is going to find the money. The room went silent. Some of the executives chuckled nervously.
Find it? Arthur asked. where under the couch cushions we've leveraged every asset we have. I'm going to review the books," Elena said, stepping forward. She walked to the whiteboard where a complex diagram of the company's cash flow was drawn. She picked up a marker.
Specifically, the operational overhead for the logistics fleet in the Pacific sector. "That's a waste of time," Veronica said quickly. Too quickly. Elena caught the tone. She turned to look at the CFO.
Is it because in the annual report, the fuel costs for the Pacific fleet went up 40% last quarter. Oil prices only rose 5%. Where did the other 35% go? Veronica stiffened. Inefficiencies.
Old ships. We're phasing them out. Or, Elena said, uncapping the marker. phantom vendors. She wrote two words on the board. Redundancy check.
I need access to the raw server logs for the procurement department going back 5 years. Veronica slammed her hand on the table. This is ridiculous. We don't have time for a witch hunt. Silas, get this girl out of here.
Silas smiled. It was a cold, dangerous smile. Actually, Veronica, I think she's on to something. Give her the access. I can't just grant access to a stranger, Veronica protested.
Security protocols. I am the CEO, Silas roared. The power of his voice shook the room. I am the majority shareholder and this is my company. Give her the passwords or you can pack your desk right now.
Veronica glared at him, her chest heaving. Then she looked at Elena with a hatred so pure it felt like a physical blow. She reached into her purse, pulled out a key card, and slid it across the mahogany table. "Fine," Veronica hissed. "But when she finds nothing, and we're all bankrupt on Monday morning.
Remember that this was your choice," Silas Elena picked up the card. It was warm from Veronica's hand. "Everyone out," Silas ordered. "Except Elena." The executives filed out, grumbling and whispering.
Arthur Pim shot Silas a worried look before closing the door. When they were alone, Silas slumped into his chair. The bravado vanished. He put his head in his hands. "That was close," he muttered.
"She's hiding something," Elena said immediately. Did you see her neck flush when I mentioned fuel costs? Veronica has been with the company since my father's days. Silas said she's family. "Judas was an apostle," Elena countered.
She sat down at the table and opened her laptop, connecting to the secure Wi-Fi using Veronica's credentials. I need coffee. A lot of it. We have 48 hours to find where she buried the bodies. Silas watched her typing furiously.
You really think you can find $100 million in missing fuel receipts? Elena didn't look up. Her eyes were darting across lines of code streaming on her screen. I'm not looking for fuel receipts, Silas. I'm looking for a pattern.
Fraud is like music. It has a rhythm. If you break the rhythm, the song falls apart. She stopped typing. She hit enter.
"Gotcha," she whispered. What? Silas stood up and walked behind her. Look at this. She pointed to a column of numbers.
Every Friday at 4:00 p.m., a transfer of $48,000 is made to a vendor called Neptune Supply Co. for miscellaneous maintenance. It's under the reporting threshold so it doesn't trigger an automatic audit. So it's maintenance Silas. Elena turned to him. Neptune Supply Co. lists its address as a P.O. box in Delaware and the IP address approving the invoices—yeah, it's coming from inside this building, specifically from a terminal on the 12th floor.
What's on the 12th floor? Silas asked. Elena's face went pale. The IT server room, but also the archives. Silas grabbed his jacket.
Let's go. Wait, Elena said, "If we go down there and whoever is doing this sees us, they'll wipe the drive. We need to catch them in the act. It's 2:00 a.m." Silas said, "Who would be in the archives at 2:00 a.m.?"
Just then, Elena's screen flickered. A red dialogue box popped up. Unauthorized access detected. System purge initiated. "They know we're here," Elena gasped.
They're deleting the evidence. Silas grabbed her hand. Run. The elevators in Sterling Tower were designed to move at a velocity of 8 m/s. A marvel of modern engineering meant to whisk executives to the summit of the world in silence.
But tonight, as Silas and Elena slammed into car 4, the silence felt heavy, like the air before a thunderstorm. 12th floor. Silas barked at the voice-activated panel. Priority override authorization Sterling Alpha 1. The doors hissed shut. The car began to descend.
"The purge was at 14% when we left the room," Elena said, her eyes fixed on the digital floor indicator, counting down. "69, 65, 60." "If they wipe the procurement logs, we lose the paper trail. We lose the leverage. You lose the company.
We're going to stop them," Silas said, loosening his tie. He looked at Elena under the harsh fluorescent lights of the elevator. She looked fierce. The waitress from the Azure Lounge had vanished.
In her place was a warrior. "Elena, "Elena, if we walk in there and it's security—if it's dangerous—"
"I grew up in Hell's Kitchen, Silas," she cut him off, checking the heavy tablet she had swiped from the conference room. I've handled drunks twice your size with nothing but a cocktail tray. I can handle a corporate IT guy. The elevator jolted. The lights flickered and died, replaced by the ominous red glow of the emergency backup.
They cut the power, Silas realized. They know we're coming. The car slammed to a halt. The display read, "Floor 15, three floors up," Silas cursed. He pried the doors open with a grunt of exertion.
They opened onto a dark hallway. "Stairs!" they ran. Elena kicked off her heels, running barefoot on the industrial carpet. They burst into the stairwell, the sound of their breathing echoing in the concrete shaft. Down three flights.
Silas hit the door to the 12th floor with his shoulder bursting through. The server room was a cavern of humming machinery bathed in the cool blue light of thousands of blinking LEDs. The air was freezing, kept at a constant 60° to protect the processors and smelled of ozone and static. Over there, Elena whispered, pointing at the far end of the server rows. A terminal was active.