Part 2: The Vanguard Protocol
The phone rang twice.
“Vanguard Capital,” a voice answered. It was sharp, impatient, and frighteningly calm.
“They took the pills, Ethan,” I whispered into the receiver, my voice barely audible. “He just told me to go mow the lawn.”
A deep, three-second silence followed. When my brother, Ethan, finally spoke, there was no comforting brotherly warmth, no panic, and no empty sympathy. It was the cold, calculated voice of a corporate predator who had dismantled billion-dollar companies for sport—the voice of a man who saw the world as a digital chessboard where mercy was a weakness.
“Hold,” Ethan said.
In the background, I heard the rapid pounding of a mechanical keyboard, followed by his sharp order to his executive assistant:
“Get the private jet ready on the tarmac. Mobilize the medical extraction team. Wake up the head of our legal department. Now.”
Ethan returned to the call, his voice precise and controlled.
“Pack absolutely nothing, Audrey,” he instructed. “An elite, private medevac team will be at your backdoor at exactly 2:00 AM. They already have the security overrides to the neighborhood gate. Do exactly what you have to do to survive the next forty-eight hours. By the time the sun rises on Wednesday, Garrick will no longer have a wife. By the time it sets, he will no longer have a life.”
“Okay,” I whispered, allowing the burner phone to fall from my hand as the screen went black.
