"Where is Alistair Webb?" I ask the two surviving guards.
They exchange terrified glances. Sweat beads roll down their faces despite the cool air conditioning.
"Conference room seven," the first guard stammers. "Down the hall, third door on the right. But sir, he's in an important meeting—"
"With who?"
"Foreign investors. Been locked in there for two hours. Private negotiations."
I nod and turn away. Behind me, one guard whispers to the other about calling for backup. I don't bother looking back.
"I wouldn't," I say casually. "Your families need you alive."
Their whispered conversation stops immediately.
The hallway stretches before me, lined with expensive artwork and corporate awards. Alistair Webb's achievements cover the walls. Businessman of the Year. Trade Innovation Excellence. Photos of him shaking hands with government officials and foreign dignitaries.
All of it built on betrayal.
