Chapter 8
Remy arrived at the Parston Real Estate headquarters just as the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of burnt orange and deep purple.
The building was a monument to corporate excess, a gleaming tower of steel and glass that rose thirty-seven stories above the city, with the Parston name emblazoned across the top in letters ten feet tall that lit up at night like a crown.
He'd made the drive in twenty-eight minutes, which meant he had exactly fifteen minutes before Thomas Reeves, the crooked accountant, would meet Victor Parston's fixer in the basement garage.
Fifteen minutes to position himself, to plan his approach, to make sure this intervention didn't backfire spectacularly.
"This is insane," Remy muttered to himself as he parked the Audi three blocks away in a public lot.
"I'm about to commit what's technically a breaking and entering to stop a transaction I only know about because a ghost gave me magic eyes that let me see the future."
"It's not insane if it works," Silas's voice echoed in his mind, the ghost appearing in the passenger seat with his usual translucent shimmer.
"Though I would advise caution. You're not invincible, boy. The Foresight shows you the path, but you still have to walk it carefully."
"I know," Remy said, checking his reflection in the rearview mirror. His eyes glowed faintly gold, the power thrumming just beneath the surface.
"But I can't just let this happen. Not when I can stop it."
Using his Foresight, he activated the ability fully, closing his eyes and letting the visions wash over him.
He saw the building's security patrols like a choreographed dance, two guards on the main floor who switched positions every twelve minutes.
One guard in the basement garage would take his smoke break at exactly 6:47 PM, and the blind spots in the camera coverage were created by a maintenance issue that wouldn't be fixed for a while.
He saw himself moving through the security like a ghost, a shadow that knew exactly when the guards would turn their heads or check their phones.
He saw every door code, every locked entrance, every obstacle between him and the basement garage where the meeting would take place.
Remy opened his eyes and checked his watch. 6:42 PM. Time to move.
He approached the building from the rear service entrance, dressed in dark clothes that he'd changed into in the car, black jeans, black hoodie, nothing too suspicious but practical for what he needed to do.
The first door required a key card, but a delivery driver would use it in exactly thirty seconds, and the door would remain propped open for forty-five seconds while he unloaded boxes.
Remy waited, counting down in his head. Right on schedule, the driver appeared, swiped his card, and wedged the door open with a cardboard box.
Remy slipped through while the man's back was turned, invisible and silent.
The service corridor smelled like industrial cleaning solution and recycled air.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows. Remy moved quickly but carefully, his sneakers silent on the polished concrete floor.
He passed the loading dock, the maintenance rooms, and the electrical closet.
At 6:47 PM, the basement guard, a heavyset man named Eddie who was three months from retirement, stepped out for his cigarette break, leaving his post by the garage entrance. Remy had a two-minute window.
He descended the stairs three at a time, emerging into the underground parking garage, a vast concrete cavern filled with rows of expensive cars, the air thick with the smell of gasoline and exhaust.
The lighting was dim, creating pools of shadow between the overhead fixtures.
Security cameras dotted the ceiling, but Remy knew their blind spots and had seen exactly where to stand to remain invisible.
He positioned himself behind a concrete support pillar in section B-7, twenty feet from where the meeting would occur.
His heart pounded, adrenaline singing through his veins. This wasn't a trading screen or a training session. This was real, immediate, and dangerous.
At 6:51 PM, Thomas Reeves arrived. He was a thin, nervous-looking man in his mid-forties, wearing a rumpled suit and carrying a leather briefcase that he clutched like a life preserver.
His face was pale, covered in a sheen of sweat despite the cool temperature of the garage.
He kept looking around, checking his phone, radiating guilty anxiety like a beacon.
At 6:53 PM, the fixer arrived. He was exactly as Remy had seen, tall, wearing a tailored grey suit that probably cost five thousand dollars, with the cold, professional demeanour of someone who did terrible things for money and slept perfectly well afterwards.
He carried a slim metal briefcase, the kind you see in movies about corporate espionage.
"You're late," the fixer said, his voice flat and empty of emotion.
"Traffic," Thomas stammered, his hands shaking as he set down his briefcase.
"I have everything. The documents, the account numbers, the audit trail. Everything Victor wanted."
"And you understand the terms? Once you hand this over, there's no taking it back. The Castellanes are finished."
Thomas hesitated, his conscience making one last weak protest. "They've been good to me. Mr Castellane gave me a job when no one else would.
His daughter just graduated high school, she's just a kid really, and this will destroy....."
"Seventy thousand dollars," the fixer interrupted, opening his briefcase to reveal stacks of cash, crisp hundred-dollar bills bound in neat bundles.
"That's enough to relocate, start over somewhere new. Enough to forget about your conscience."
Thomas stared at the money, and Remy could see the moment his resolve crumbled.
The accountant reached for his own briefcase, preparing to make the exchange.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Remy said, stepping out from behind the pillar.
Both men jumped, spinning toward the sound of his voice.
The fixer's hand moved toward his jacket, probably reaching for a weapon, but Remy was already moving, his body flowing through the movements he'd practised for months.
Using the Foresight, he saw the fixer pulling a gun in two seconds and saw Thomas trying to run in three seconds.
He moved with the precision of someone who'd seen this fight play out before it happened, someone who knew every punch before it was thrown, every move before it was made.
With a few swift movements of his newfound martial arts prowess, a combination of Taekwondo footwork and Muay Thai strikes, Remy closed the distance.
He swept the fixer's legs out from under him with a precise low kick, caught the falling gun with one hand before it could fire, and delivered a controlled palm strike to the man's solar plexus that left him gasping on the concrete.
Thomas tried to run, but Remy was faster. He grabbed the accountant's briefcase before he could take three steps, then used a simple wrist lock, one of the first techniques he'd learned, to bring the man to his knees.
"The encrypted drive," Remy demanded, his voice cold and authoritative. "The one with the Parston family's insider trading records.
The proof of their sabotage. Give it to me. Now."
"How did you....." Thomas gasped, his face twisted in pain and fear.
Remy increased the pressure on the wrist lock slightly. "I said now."
With his free hand, Thomas fumbled in his jacket pocket and produced a small USB drive.
Remy took it, released the accountant, and stepped back.
"You have two choices," Remy said, looking between the two men.
"You can take that blood money, and I'll make sure the police and the SEC know everything about tonight.
Or you can walk away, disappear, and hope the Parstons forget about you before I decide to remind them."
The fixer was already scrambling to his feet, leaving his briefcase and its cash behind, holding his ribs and stumbling toward the exit.
Thomas followed, abandoning his own briefcase, both men desperate to escape this stranger with golden eyes who'd appeared from nowhere like an avenging angel.
Remy waited until they were gone, then collected both briefcases. The money he would donate anonymously, money shouldn't benefit anyone.
But the documents? Those were evidence. Those were power.
He examined the USB drive under the dim garage light, then pocketed it carefully.
This small piece of plastic and circuitry held the key to destroying the Parston family's schemes, to saving Lyra's family from bankruptcy, to rewriting a future that had seemed inevitable.
"Well done," Silas's voice echoed through the garage, the ghost appearing beside a Mercedes.
"You're learning to use the gift for more than just profit. Your soul is beginning to shine, boy."
"Don't praise me yet," Remy said, heading for the exit. "I still have to deliver this. And that conversation is going to be complicated."