Apocalypse Rebirth: Seven Days to Hoard and Take Revenge

Harlon's right eye twitched. He forced a laugh, but it sounded hollow. "What kind of game are you playing, Cora?" Myra struggled to her feet, pointing a shaking finger at Cora. "You ungrateful little bitch! How dare you threaten your family!" Cora didn't even look at Myra. She reached down, unzipped her backpack, and pulled out her laptop. She opened it, plugged in the USB drive, and turned the screen so it faced Harlon. A massive Excel spreadsheet filled the screen. In her past life, after Harlon had been violently killed during a supply run, a surviving FBI agent had drunkenly spilled the details of the federal investigation into the Bullock estate. Cora had memorized every single line of that report. It detailed exactly how the trust fund had been bled dry over the last five years. It showed the money moving through three different shell companies registered in the Cayman Islands, before being washed and deposited back into Harlon's private accounts. Harlon leaned forward. His eyes scanned the numbers. The color drained from his face, leaving his skin a sickly gray. A bead of sweat broke out on his forehead. "Let's see," Cora said, reading the screen upside down. "Apex Holdings. Blue Ocean LLC. And my personal favorite, the two million dollars you wired to buy that yacht in Miami last summer." Harlon's breathing grew heavy. He lunged across the desk, his hands grabbing for the laptop. Cora was faster. She slammed the screen shut, trapping his fingers for a second before pulling the laptop to her chest. "That's just a copy," Cora said, her voice like ice. "The original files are on a dead-man's switch. If I don't walk out of this house tonight, or if you try to cancel my phone, those files get emailed directly to the IRS audit division tomorrow morning at 8:00 AM." The letters IRS hit the room like a bomb. Myra gasped, clutching her chest, and collapsed back into her chair. She didn't say another word. Harlon gripped the edge of the desk. He stared at Cora as if he was looking at a monster he had never seen before. "What do you want?" Harlon hissed through his teeth. Cora leaned back in her chair. She held up one finger. "One million dollars. Cash flow. Transferred to my personal Bank of America account by noon tomorrow." Harlon slammed his fist on the desk. "The trust is tied up in real estate and stocks! I can't liquidate a million in cash in twelve hours!" "Don't lie to me," Cora snapped. "You have at least three million sitting in your private UBS account in Switzerland. Use it." Harlon slumped back into his leather chair. The fight completely left his body. He looked old. He rubbed his face with both hands. "Cora... your parents wouldn't want this. We are family." The mention of her parents made Cora's blood run cold. She stood up so fast her chair scraped loudly against the wood floor. She slammed both hands flat on his desk, leaning over him. "Do not ever say their names again," Cora whispered, her voice vibrating with pure hatred. "This money is the price you pay to not die in a federal prison. Pay it." Harlon swallowed hard. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. The silence stretched for thirty agonizing seconds. "Fine," Harlon choked out. "Tomorrow." Cora reached into her bag and pulled out a single sheet of paper. She slid it across the desk. "Sign this," Cora demanded. "It's a legal declaration of a voluntary cash gift. If the bank flags the transfer for money laundering, this clears it." Harlon's hands shook as he picked up his expensive fountain pen. He scribbled his signature at the bottom of the page. Cora snatched the paper, folded it, and shoved it into her pocket. She packed up her laptop and slung the backpack over her shoulder. She walked to the door and unlocked it. Before she opened it, she turned back. She looked at the pathetic old woman in the chair and the broken man behind the desk. "Have a wonderful winter in this house," Cora said softly. She walked out and shut the door. She walked down the hallway, her heart beating a steady, powerful rhythm. The first million was secured.