"Ten minutes until the broadcast goes citywide," Drazhan muttered, checking the chronograph clamped around his wrist. Outside the reinforced windows, the Grand Pavilion of the Sovereign Summit loomed like a gilded tomb, surrounded by three concentric rings of riot barriers.
"Which gives us eight minutes to ruin his life and two minutes to pose for the media," Zibena said. She kicked the door of the neon-pink limousine open, adjusting the lapels of her sharp ivory blazer. "Brix, tell me the payload is prime."
From the driver's seat, Brix looked one bad thought away from a stroke. He was sweating through a silk ascot patterned with golden anchors. "Mistress Zibena, please reconsider. They have dental records. They have pedigree papers with three separate hereditary curses. If one of them soils the upholstery, the breeder will take my flat."
"Deploy the beasts, Brix."
Brix sobbed softly, tapped three icons on his tablet, and popped the trunk.
Forty-two miniature designer poodles—dyed bioluminescent violet, engineered without fear, and chemically tuned to demand non-stop human contact—erupted into the lobby courtyard. Their yaps sounded like an avalanche of squeaky toys. They surged straight through the glass vestibule, tripping heavy-duty sensor lasers and hurling themselves into the shins of the checkpoint guards. Heavily armored sentries shrieked, swatting uselessly as vibrating balls of fluff licked their visors, chewed their boots, and jammed the iris-scanners with swarming fluff.
"Go, go!" Drazhan barked, grabbing her wrist.
They sprinted past the flailing guards, vaulted over a turnstile, and plunged into the service corridor. Red emergency beacons bathed the metal hall in crimson rotations.
Zibena whipped out her matte-black obsidian card, jamming it against the pneumatic lift console that led directly to the executive mezzanine. The panel spat a sour drone.
[TRANSACTION DENIED: GLOBAL ASSETS RESTRICTED UNDER ARTICLE 9 CORPORATE MARTIAL RULE]
"No," Zibena hissed, tapping the plastic against the screen again. "No, no, you cheap piece of junk. I have sixty billion credits in liquid bonds!"
"The lockdown froze external accounts," Drazhan said, his tone dry as crushed chalk as he leaned back against the steel wall. His jacket bore scorch marks across the left lapel. "Torgal anticipated the Spire filing. Until the board ratifies our registry in person, his emergency protocol blocks your purse."
Zibena stared at the inert black strip. The balance screen remained dead gray. A dry pinch tightened beneath Zibena's collarbones, pungent as bitter almonds, dredging up old memories of lockouts and poisoned broths.
Drazhan caught her elbow, fingers rough against her silk sleeve. "You don't need a balance sheet to tear him apart, Zibena. Look at me."
She met his level gaze, devoid of its usual sardonic smirk.
"You outsmarted death," he said quietly. "He’s an accountant with stolen cufflinks. Finish it."
She rolled her shoulders back, teeth bared in a feral grin. "Right. Who needs money when we have sheer, unadulterated malice? Catering kitchen is two doors down."
They kicked through the double swinging doors of the prep galley. Stainless steel tables stretched for fifty yards, loaded with towering pyramids of crystal flutes and chrome chilled buckets. At the far end of the room, a frantic figure was cramming bundles of high-denomination physical script into monogrammed leather duffels.
Loria Fenn paused mid-shove, her synthetic lashes fluttering in panic. Her mascara was smeared from her flight through the alleys, her silk gown ripped at the hem.
"Loria!" Zibena beamed, strolling across the linoleum as though entering an afternoon high tea. "Look at you, diversifying your portfolio into heavy canvas!"
Loria shrieked, dropping a brick of bills. She backed away toward an industrial blast chiller. "Stay away from me! Torgal's taking the podium! The contracts are already transferring to the offshore trust! Once he finishes the toast, nobody can stop him!"
"The toast," Drazhan repeated, his voice dropping an octave as he moved toward a silver trolley parked near the server entrance. On it sat two distinct crystal carafes. One was labeled *Summit Reserve*. The other had a small ultraviolet dot dabbed onto the glass stopper. "The poisoned batch."
Zibena walked over, picked up the marked carafe, and swirled the vintage. Pale gold liquid coated the crystal. "You know, Loria, Torgal gave me a glass just like this three years ago. Told me it was an exclusive vintage pressed from the southern terrace. It tasted faintly of bitter almonds and ruined three sets of silk sheets while my kidneys shut down."
Loria shook her head frantically, tears cutting tracks through her cake makeup. "I didn't pour it! That was his idea! He said it was the only way to clear the board!"
"Fascinating defense," Zibena said, taking three brisk steps forward and slamming the heavy glass carafe onto the table directly in front of the mistress. The thud made Loria jump. "Here’s the deal, sweetie. You have two options. Option A: you drink this entire bottle right now. Bottoms up, prove your undying devotion to my ex-husband."
"No! It’s toxic! It liquefies your insides!"
"Then Option B," Zibena purred, pointing to the wall-mounted communications box with the glowing amber switch labeled *MASTER ENCLAVE PA*. "You flip that lever. You tell every aristocrat, investor, and military attaché in that auditorium exactly what Torgal mixed into their commemorative flutes. And you tell them where the bodies of the Venz elders are buried."
"He’ll murder me!"
"I'll murder you faster," Drazhan added, stepping beside Zibena, his broad frame blocking the only exit.
Loria looked from the glittering poison to Drazhan’s unyielding stare, then back to Zibena’s manic, expectant grin. With a jagged sob, Loria lunged for the master intercom. She smashed her palm against the toggle.
A deafening chime echoed across the entire pavilion complex. Feedback shrieked through the overhead speakers.
"Attention!" Loria screamed into the grill, her voice cracking over the thousands assembled in the main amphitheater. "Torgal Venz is poisoning the champagne! Do not drink! The toast is a massacre—he forged the proxies, he killed the council, he—"
The door behind the scullery blew inward with a hydraulic crack.
A shadow surged forward. Before Zibena could draw breath, a gloved forearm hooked viciously around her throat, wrenching her backward. Cold, serrated titanium pressed hard against the soft flesh under her jawline.
"Drop the transmitter, little girl," rasped a flat, mechanical voice.
Commander Hauer. Torgal's private hound.
"Zibena!" Drazhan lunged forward, but two magnetic stun-darts hit him dead in the chest. His muscles seized instantly, blue static arcing across his jacket as he dropped hard to his knees, paralyzed, fighting the voltage with ragged gasps.
Hauer hauled Zibena backward toward the service lift, the edge of the blade digging deep enough to draw a single bead of scarlet. The intercom was still howling with Loria’s confessions, but through the double doors, Zibena could hear Torgal’s smooth, amplified baritone rising over the public chaos, demanding order.
Hauer twisted the knife against her windpipe. "Mr. Venz said if you made it this far, I wasn't supposed to waste time on pleasantries."