Page 4 of Roar Me Like You Mean It
He’s a ghost in most records, a shadow in every oversight committee. His company is a hydra. Cut off one head and three more grow back in offshore branches and shell firms. I’ve been circling his name for two years, waiting for the right crack in the armor.
Now I’ve got one.
“Is this real?” I ask, eyes narrowing on a black-and-white photocopy of a transportation log routed through Luxembourg.
“Anonymous drop,” Marcy says. “Encrypted email. The IP was scrubbed six ways to hell, but the documents are solid. It’s linked to a shipment of surplus weapons rerouted through Thorne’s logistics branch to a known conflict zone. Zero official approval.”
“God,” I breathe, setting the page down carefully. “He’s not even pretending anymore.”
“He never had to,” she replies, crossing her arms. “He’s untouchable.”
“Not anymore.”
She tilts her head. “Are you sure about this? Going after Thorne means pushing every alarm in the building. He’s not just another warmonger. People disappear around him.”
“I’m not them,” I say.
She doesn’t argue. Just slides another document across the desk.
“Then you’ll want to read this.”
It’s a formal invitation. Gilded, handwritten, delivered on actual cardstock. The kind that still smells faintly of pressed wax and money. It’s for the Vanguard Initiative’s annual charity gala. A who’s who of international movers, all dressed to the nines and pretending they don’t profit off blood.
At the bottom of the guest list, printed in smaller but still unmistakable lettering:Malek Thorne, Chairman and CEO, Thorne Strategic.
I stare at it for a long moment, fingers resting lightly on the edge.
“Is this confirmed?”
“He never misses it,” Marcy says. “It’s the only event he attends publicly all year. No cameras inside. Total security lockdown. You won’t get anything recorded, but you’ll get close.
Being in close proximity is advantageous. It surpasses the need for subpoenas and deciphering email trails, fostering direct, face-to-face interaction.
“Get me a dress,” I say. “And something that doesn’t look like I’m about to cross-examine a corpse.”
Marcy grins, the first real smile she’s cracked all day.
“I already pulled three options. One of them’s black velvet and might require scaffolding to get into.”
“Perfect.”
She leaves, taking her phone out already, muttering something about last-minute hair appointments and body armor disguised as shapewear.
I lean back in the chair, let the hum of the old floor lamp fill the room. Outside, the sun dips lower, bleeding gold across the windows.
Malek Thorne.
I’ve read the stories. Listened to the rumors. The man who built a global empire in silence, who never gives interviews, who’s never once raised his voice in public but still walks into rooms and leaves entire governments trembling.
A warlord in a three-piece suit.
And now, he’s going to see me.
Not in a courtroom or behind a desk. But eye to eye, while the rest of the world twirls and drinks champagne around us like nothing is wrong.
Good.
I want him comfortable. Arrogant.
