Chapter 81: Not My Idea

The small tactical radio on the mercenary’s vest went silent after Garrett’s frantic question echoed across the ballroom.

Evren looked down at the pinned S-Rank commander under his foot. He calmly reached down, unclipped the radio from the man’s armored shoulder strap, and held it up to his mouth.

He pressed the side button.

"I’m standing in the ballroom, Garrett," Evren said in a low, slightly amused voice. "Why don’t you come up and see for yourself?"

There was a sharp gasp on the other end of the frequency, followed by the clatter of something falling and breaking against the floor. Then, the line went dead.

Evren tossed the radio onto the floor beside the unconscious commander.

He stepped back and looked across the grand ballroom at the four hundred guests who were still standing frozen in shock.

Mayor Henderson and several district directors were still recovering their breath, their eyes wide as they looked at the defeated assassins.

Evren adjusted his suit jacket, placed his hands loosely in his pockets, and gave the room a calm, respectful nod.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Mayor Henderson," Evren voiced. "Please accept my sincere apologies for this disruption to our evening. The threat has been completely neutralized. Apex security and the state police have the entire building locked down. Nobody else is in danger."

For a second, the room was quiet.

Then, an older guild master from Sector Two began to clap. Within moments, the entire ballroom erupted into loud, appreciative applause.

The guests weren’t just relieved; they were stunned by the authority Evren displayed. Facing an S-Rank assassination ambush in the dark, he had dismantled the attackers in seconds and apologized to his guests as if someone had merely spilled a glass of water.

Amber walked up to Evren’s side, looking composed, but her dark eyes were cold.

They stepped together toward the quieter corner of the stage.

"You’re not going to let this slide, are you?" Amber asked softly, looking directly into his eyes.

"Never," Evren replied without hesitation.

Evren signaled toward the main entrance. "Get me Derrick and Commander Briggs from the Tactical Unit."

Commander Derrick and Commander Briggs hurried over immediately.

"Chairman," Derrick said, standing at attention.

"Trace the exact frequency of that tactical radio," Evren ordered calmly. "Lock down the surrounding blocks. Garrett is operating from nearby. Find him and bring him to this ballroom in handcuffs. I want him alive."

"Right away, Chairman," Derrick nodded.

Commander Briggs pulled his radio from his utility belt. "All tactical units, initiate an immediate perimeter sweep on the surrounding commercial blocks. Target is Garrett Sterling."

—

Two blocks away, inside the private office of the Sterling Freight Transport building, Garrett Sterling was trembling uncontrollably.

His face was as pale as chalk. The half-smoked cigarette he had been holding lay crushed on the rug, and the glass of water on his desk was overturned.

"He’s alive..." Garrett stammered in pure terror. "How is he alive?! Two S-Rank commanders... eight trained killers... how?!"

Panic took over. Garrett scrambled across the room, grabbing his winter coat from the rack and fumbling with the car keys in his pocket.

"I have to get out of the city," he muttered, sweating through his shirt. "I have to take the highway to Sector Four right now..."

BANG!

The glass entrance doors of the building shattered into pieces as Commander Derrick and six armed state police officers burst into the office with weapons raised.

"Garrett Sterling! Don’t move!" Derrick roared, stepping into the room.

Garrett froze with his hand on his desk drawer, his knees turning to jelly. Before he could take a single step, two officers tackled him to the carpet, twisting his arms behind his back and snapping handcuffs around his wrists.

"Get him up," Derrick ordered coldly. "The Chairman is waiting for him."

Five minutes later, the double doors of the tenth-floor ballroom opened again.

The chatter in the hall died down instantly as Derrick and two state police officers marched Garrett Sterling through the entrance in handcuffs.

Garrett looked pathetic. His hair was sticking to his sweaty forehead, his tie was crooked, and his knees were shaking so badly he could barely keep his footing.

When he was pushed into the center of the ballroom, Garrett looked up and saw the full reality of what had happened.

The six fake servers were tied up on the floor to one side. The two S-Rank mercenary commanders were unconscious in crushed armor. And standing in the center of the hall, looking down at him with cold detachment, were Evren, Amber, and Mayor Henderson.

Dozens of television cameras swung around, pointing their bright lights directly at Garrett’s terrified face.

Garrett’s legs completely gave out. He dropped hard onto his knees on the marble floor, weeping openly.

"Amber! Amber, please!" Garrett wailed, tears streaming down his face as he looked up at his niece. "It wasn’t my idea! I swear it wasn’t my idea!"

Amber didn’t say a word. She stood beside Evren with her chin raised, looking down at her uncle with disgust.

"Who planned this, Garrett?" Mayor Henderson demanded, stepping forward with his fists clenched in fury. "You used registered guild catering permits to smuggle armed assassins into a charity event!"

"It was Lord Prescott!" Garrett shouted frantically, desperate to save himself. "Lord Alistair planned the entire thing! He wanted revenge because his son was thrown in jail! He contacted me yesterday in Sector Three and told me he would wipe out all of Sterling Guild’s debts if I aided him and let his men use my transport warehouse! I was only following his orders because they humiliated me."

Garrett raised his cuffed hands in a pleading gesture. "I had no choice! Lord Prescott told me to do it!"

Evren looked down at the weeping man with a faint smirk. "So if he asked you to put your hands inside the fire, you would?" he asked in a dry, unimpressed tone.

A wave of mocking chuckles and disgusted murmurs rippled through the four hundred guests.

Several prominent guild masters shook their heads in contempt. The acting head of the Sterling family had not only resorted to treason, but he was also groveling on the floor like a coward, trying to blame someone else for his own greed.

Mayor Henderson stepped toward the news microphones near the stage.

"By the emergency authority vested in my office," Mayor Henderson declared loudly, his voice broadcasting live to every television network in the province, "City Hall is officially issuing an Emergency Red Warrant for the immediate arrest of Lord Alistair Prescott on charges of attempted assassination of city leadership, domestic terrorism, and armed conspiracy. State police and tactical defense units are authorized to use all necessary force."

The Mayor turned to the lead police captain. "Dispatch the Special Tactical Unit to Sector Three immediately."

"Yes, Mayor!" the captain saluted, rushing out with his radio.

—

In the western industrial district of Sector Three, the atmosphere inside the Prescott fortress was dead silent.

Lord Alistair Prescott stood near his mahogany desk, staring at the wide television screen mounted on the wall.

On the screen, live footage from Horizon Plaza showed Garrett Sterling on his knees in handcuffs, spilling every detail of their conspiracy in front of the entire city.

Alistair’s hand tightened around his crystal glass until the thick glass shattered, spilling whiskey and dark blood across the Persian rug.

He didn’t scream, and he didn’t curse. The cold, calculating mind of the old patriarch went into immediate survival mode.

The Red Warrant had been issued on live broadcast.

Within fifteen minutes, armored police convoys and tactical strike teams would be surrounding his estate. If he stayed here, he would spend the rest of his life in the Iron Depths alongside his son.

Alistair opened the secret wall safe behind the painting. He pulled out a reinforced steel briefcase packed with bearer bonds, offshore access documents, and emergency cash.

He threw on a dark trench coat, pulled a flat cap low over his forehead, and grabbed a pair of tinted reading glasses.

Without looking back at his grand mansion, Lord Alistair opened the hidden door behind his bookcase and hurried down the narrow stone stairs into the private underground tunnel.