Heat in Marrakech

Chapter 5: Selman

The Selman lobby smelled like money and blood.

Not literal blood. Not yet. But Yvonne knew the scent. She’d grown up in it. Lancaster Holdings boardrooms. Victor Cross’s cologne. It was entitlement mixed with violence. Expensive.

Derek was in the trunk. Unconscious. Zip-tied. Mouth taped. Sabastian called it “leverage.” Yvonne called it “bait.”

“You sure about this?” she asked. They stood by the valet stand, her in black linen, him in a suit he’d pulled from somewhere in the riad. He looked like he owned the hotel. He probably did. “We walk in, we don’t walk out.”

“We walk in, Victor walks out.” Sabastian handed the keys to a valet who didn’t ask questions. Vance men got that. “In a body bag. Or handcuffs. Market’s choice.”

The lobby was marble and gold and quiet. Too quiet for 11 PM. The presidential suite took the whole top floor. Private elevator. Private security. All of it bought.

All of it Cross.

The elevator doors opened. No ding. Just a silent slide. Inside: black walls, no buttons except P. A camera in the corner. Red light blinking.

Sabastian looked up at it and smiled. Not nice. “Evening, Victor.”

The doors closed.

Thirty seconds of rising. Yvonne checked her gun. Full mag. One in the chamber. Safety off. Sabastian didn’t check his. His was already out. Pointed at the floor. Casual. Ready.

“You remember the plan?” he asked.

“Plan?” She almost laughed. “You said ‘walk in, improvise, burn it down.’ That’s not a plan. That’s a felony.”

“Vance family motto.” The elevator slowed. “Acquire first. Apologize never.”

The doors opened.

Presidential suite. Bigger than the riad. All glass, looking out over Marrakech. The city was a carpet of lights. Beautiful. Stolen.

Victor Cross stood by the window. Sixty-five. Silver hair. Suit that cost more than Yvonne’s bounty. He held a crystal glass. Champagne. He didn’t turn around.

“Took you long enough, Sabastian,” he said to the glass. “I was starting to think Derek got lost. Or got smart. Unlikely.”

He turned. Saw Yvonne.

The glass stopped halfway to his mouth.

“Impossible,” he said.

“Hi, Victor,” Yvonne said. “Jane Miller from the booking site. Here about your dead son’s wallet.”

Victor set the glass down. Slowly. Carefully. Men like him didn’t spill good champagne. “Derek’s not dead. He’s late. And you’re not Jane Miller. You’re a ghost.”

“Ghosts don’t use nine millimeters.” She raised the gun. “They use ledgers. And bullets.”

Two men stepped out from behind the bar. Suits. Earpieces. Hands going inside jackets.

Sabastian shot them. Two shots. Two head shots. They dropped before their guns cleared leather. He didn’t even look. He was still watching Victor.

“Your security is garbage,” Sabastian said. “Like Derek’s door locks.”

Victor didn’t flinch at the bodies. He just looked at Sabastian. Then at Yvonne. Then back. Calculating. “So this is it? The Vance boy and the Lancaster girl. Playing Bonnie and Clyde. You think you can walk into my city and take my company?”

“I don’t think,” Sabastian said. “I filed. Thirty minutes ago. Hostile takeover. Leveraged with the ledger you stole. The one with your signature on every embezzlement. The SEC loves signatures, Victor. They’re so... permanent.”

Victor’s face went white. Then red. “You wouldn’t. Your father—”

“My father is on a yacht in Monaco. He doesn’t like war. I do.” Sabastian stepped forward. “Your stock drops 40% at open. Your board votes you out by noon. Your assets freeze by dinner. You’ll be insolvent before the champagne goes flat.”

“You’ll never prove it.”

“I don’t have to.” Sabastian nodded at Yvonne. “She’s the proof. Yvonne Lancaster, alive. Your ‘car accident’ was murder. Your ‘acquisition’ was theft. Your ‘empire’ is evidence.”

Victor laughed. Short. Ugly. “And what? You’ll arrest me? You’re not police, boy. You’re a trust fund with a gun.”

“I’m not arresting you,” Sabastian said. “I’m delisting you.”

He looked at Yvonne. One nod. Her call.

She walked to Victor. Stopped three feet away. Kept the gun up. “You killed my parents for a board seat. You made Derek propose to me for account numbers. You burned me so you could be king.”

“They were weak,” Victor said. Spit on the word. “Lancasters always were. Too soft. Too honest. The market eats honest, girl. I just helped.”

“The market’s eating you now.” She pressed the gun under his chin. Same as she did to Derek. Different man. Same bloodline. Same sin. “Any last words? For the shareholders?”

Victor smiled. Bloody. “Yeah. You’re just like your mother. She begged too.”

She pulled the trigger.

Click.

Empty.

Victor’s smile got wider. “Did you think I’d let you walk in here loaded? Check your mag, ghost.”

She ejected it. Empty. When? The riad. The drive. Sabastian must have—

She looked at him. He wasn’t watching Victor. He was watching her. VI-9 still in his hand. Still loaded.

“Vances acquire,” he said quietly. “We don’t share.”

The suite went silent except for the city outside. The lights. The empire Victor built on bones.

Yvonne dropped the empty mag. It hit the marble. Loud.

“Then acquire me,” she said.

Sabastian raised his gun. Not at Victor. At her.

Victor laughed. “Smart boy. Should have done that five years ago. Save us all the trouble.”

“Shut up, Victor.” Sabastian didn’t look away from Yvonne. “This isn’t about you anymore.”

“Then what is it about?” Her voice didn’t shake. She was done shaking.

“It’s about controlling interest.” He thumbed the safety off. “And you’re not mine until you’re not his. Say it. Say you’re not a Lancaster. Say you’re Vance. Say it, and I pull the trigger on him. Don’t, and I pull it on you.”

Outside, Marrakech glittered. Inside, the war came down to one word.

Victor was smiling. Waiting. He’d won. Again. Vances always chose Vances.

Yvonne looked at Sabastian. Really looked. Cardamom and gun oil and liars. War and monopoly and blood.

She opened her mouth.