Marcus whistles low.
“The stock is going to zero.”
“Travis doesn’t just need a lawyer,” I say, standing up. “He needs a priest.”
I grab my bag.
“Where are you going?” Marcus asks. “We haven’t signed the papers.”
“Draw them up,” I say. “I have to go make sure none of my people get dragged down with the ship. And then I have to have a conversation with a very angry father. Old Man Henderson. He lands in two hours,” I say, checking the flight tracker I still have active for his private jet. “And I’m going to meet him on the tarmac.”
This wasn’t just business anymore. It was a rescue mission.
I didn’t go to the airport immediately. I went to the one place I knew Travis wouldn’t look, but the people who actually mattered would find me: the archives.
It wasn’t a library. It was a storage facility in an industrial park where Arcadia kept physical copies of records dating back to the ’80s.
I had a key. I always had a key.
I needed the original indemnity clauses signed by Old Man Henderson, ones that explicitly stated that safety compliance was the sole responsibility of the active CEO. I needed to prove that when I walked out, the chain of custody broke and the negligence was 100% on Travis.
I was digging through a box marked 2015 Hazardous Materials Protocols when the metal roll-up door rattled. I didn’t flinch. I knew who it was.
“You’re trespassing, Judy.”
I turned around. It was Saul Goodman. No, that’s not his name, but it might as well be. Arthur Banks, Arcadia’s general counsel.
Sixty years old, suit that cost more than my car, eyes that had seen everything and felt nothing.
“It’s not trespassing if I still have the key, Arthur,” I said, holding up a file. “And technically, I’m doing discovery for my own defense.”
Arthur sighed and walked in. He didn’t look angry. He looked exhausted.
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped a spot on a dusty filing cabinet before leaning against it.
“The DOT is swarming HQ,” Arthur said. “They seized the servers. Travis is locked in his office crying. Literally crying. Judy, Crystal is live-streaming an apology on TikTok. It’s grotesque.”
“He hired a scab for a hazmat load. Arthur, what did he expect?”
“He expected you to fix it,” Arthur said quietly. “He thought you were bluffing. He didn’t realize that you were the system.”
“I didn’t break it, Arthur,” I said, my voice hard. “I just stopped holding it together.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s why I’m here. The board is holding an emergency meeting tonight. They want to offer you a settlement, a big one, to come back, to talk to the DOT, to say this was a miscommunication during a transition.”
I laughed. It echoed in the cold storage unit.
“A miscommunication? A guy is in the hospital. EPA is scrubbing solvent off I-80. You want me to go under oath and say that’s a whoopsie?”
“We want you to save the company,” Arthur said. “For the employees. For Linda in payroll. For the drivers.”
“I am saving them,” I said. “I’m moving them. I’m taking a job with Global, Arthur, and I’m taking the good people with me.”
Arthur’s face fell. He knew what that meant. It was the death knell.
“And Henderson?” Arthur asked. “Does he know?”
“He knows the stock is tanking. He doesn’t know why.”
“He lands in 40 minutes. He’s going to blame you,” Arthur warned. “He’s a father first, a businessman second. He’ll see this as betrayal.”
“He can see it however he wants,” I said, tucking the file into my bag. “But he’s going to listen to me.”
I walked past Arthur. He didn’t try to stop me.
“Judy,” he called out as I reached the door.
I paused.
“That email regarding clause 7B,” he said. “Brilliant. Evil, but brilliant. It tied my hands completely. I couldn’t even threaten the vendors legally because they were contractually obligated to pause.”
“Read the fine print, Arthur,” I said. “I wrote it.”
I drove to the private airfield on the outskirts of the city. The rain had stopped, leaving the sky a bruised purple.
I parked near the fence, watching the runway lights flicker on. A Gulfstream G650 descended from the clouds, sleek and white. It touched down with a screech of tires that sounded like a scream.
The founder was home.
I didn’t go to the plane. I wasn’t allowed on the tarmac. I waited by the gate where his driver usually picked him up.
But the driver wasn’t there. The driver was probably stuck in the chaos at HQ. Or maybe he’d quit too.
The plane taxied to the hangar. The stairs lowered.
Old Man Henderson descended. He was 72, but he moved like a linebacker. He was on his phone, shouting. Even from 50 yards away, I could see the rage radiating off him.
He looked around for his car. He saw nothing.
Then he saw my Ford Explorer.
I rolled down the window.
He stormed over, his coat flapping in the wind. He looked like Lear on the heath.
“You!” he roared, pointing a finger at me. “You ungrateful, treacherous—”
“Get in, Walter,” I said, using his first name. I never used his first name.
He stopped. The shock of it silenced him for a second.
“Get in,” I repeated. “Your driver isn’t coming. Travis fired the dispatch team, so nobody told the limo service your flight was early. I’m the only ride you have.”
He stared at me, his face red. He looked at the empty parking lot. He looked at his phone, which was likely blowing up with bad news.
He yanked the door open and climbed into the passenger seat.