Chapter 7 - The Reckoning at Midnight
While Kira made her way toward the paddock tunnel under heavy escort, the world behind the scenes began to burn.
Julian Voss was sitting in his private, climate-controlled luxury suite atop the Belmont grandstand, sipping bourbon and watching the horses parade onto the track through floor-to-ceiling windows. Beside him sat two corrupt racing commissioners who had helped orchestrate Kira's disqualification the year before.
“The girl won't make it to the post,” Julian smiled smugly, checking his gold Rolex. “My man in the barn should have wrapped things up five minutes ago.”
The heavy mahogany doors of the luxury suite clicked open.
Julian didn't turn around. “Did you clear the body, Dominic?”
“Dominic is currently at the bottom of the Hudson River,” a cold, smooth voice replied.
Julian froze.
He spun around to see Grayson Hail walking into the suite. Grayson wasn't wearing his suit jacket anymore; his white dress shirt had the sleeves rolled up to the forearms, and his hands were encased in black leather gloves.
Behind him, Troy closed the double doors and locked the deadbolt. The two corrupt commissioners turned pale as ghosts, rising to their feet in sheer terror.
“Hail?” Julian sputtered, spilling his bourbon onto his trousers. “What is the meaning of this? This is a private suite! Security!”
“Your security team is asleep in the stairwell, Julian,” Grayson said calmly, walking over to the bar and pouring himself a single finger of scotch. “Sit down.”
The sheer, oppressive weight of Grayson’s presence forced Julian back into his leather chair. Julian’s hands shook uncontrollably.
“You can’t touch me here,” Julian hissed, trying to summon his old authority. “I am Julian Voss! The Governor is in the box next door! If anything happens to me—”
“The Governor just received a flash drive,” Grayson interrupted, taking a slow sip of the scotch. “Containing the financial records of your offshore shell companies, the wire transfers you used to bribe the racing stewards, and the recorded confession of the farrier who poisoned Red Sovereign last year.”
Julian’s face went completely ash-gray. “You’re bluffing.”
Grayson reached into his pocket and tossed a phone onto the glass table. On the screen was a live video feed of federal agents and state police raiding the Voss Racing headquarters in Lexington, seizing file cabinets and placing Julian’s chief executives in handcuffs.
“Your empire is gone, Julian,” Grayson said softly, his voice devoid of pity. “In approximately five minutes, your daughter will be humiliated on live international television. And by the time the race is over, the Department of Justice will be waiting at the bottom of the elevator to escort you to a federal penitentiary for racketeering, conspiracy to commit murder, and fraud.”
Julian lunged toward the table to grab the phone, but Grayson’s hand shot out like an iron vice, grabbing Julian by the throat and slamming him against the glass window that looked out over the track.
Far below, the horses were loading into the starting gate. Kira Dawson, riding the great black stallion Storm, was entering Gate 4.
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“Watch closely, Julian,” Grayson whispered into the old man’s ear, forcing his face against the glass. “Watch the woman you tried to destroy take everything you ever loved.”
***
