The Boardroom
The room was freezing.
It was not just cold. It was aggressively cold. It felt like the inside of a meat locker. It felt like a place where things were kept to stop them from rotting.
Zaviyar Khan liked it this way. Of course he did. He sat at the head of the table in his charcoal suit, looking perfectly comfortable. He did not shiver. He did not look bothered. He looked like a reptile basking on a cold rock.
Esha stood at the door for a second. She took a breath. The air smelled of ozone and floor polish. It smelled of fear.
There were twelve men in the room. They were sitting around the long mahogany table. The table was shiny. It was polished so high you could see your own distorted reflection in the wood. The men were wearing grey suits. Blue suits. Expensive suits. But they looked small. They looked like children who had been called to the principal's office.
They were waiting. They were waiting for the axe to fall.
"Sit," Zaviyar said.
He did not look at Esha. He did not turn his head. He was staring at the screen on the far wall. The screen showed a graph. A red line. The line was plummeting. It looked like a crash site.
He pointed a finger at the chair to his right. The empty chair.
The seat of power. The seat of the second-in-command.
Esha walked to the chair. Her heels made a sharp sound on the floor. Click. Clack. Click. Clack. It was too loud in the quiet room. Every eye turned to her. She could feel them. Twelve pairs of eyes. They were confused. They were hostile.
Who is she? they were thinking. Why is she sitting there? That is Harris's seat. That is the seat for someone who matters.
Esha sat down. The leather was cold against her legs. She placed her tablet on the table. She folded her hands. She kept her chin up. Anya Sharma does not look down. Anya Sharma looks you in the eye while she burns your house down.
"This is Ms. Sharma," Zaviyar announced. He finally turned to face them. His eyes were dark. There were shadows under them. He looked exhausted. He looked dangerous. "She is the new Chief Strategy Officer for the Americas. Her word is my word. If she tells you to jump, you jump. You do not ask how high. You jump and you pray that the ground is soft."
The room was silent. A heavy, suffocating silence.
A man halfway down the table cleared his throat. It was a wet, nervous sound. He was bald. His face was red. He was sweating. He was sweating a lot. Sweat was beading on his forehead. It was staining his collar.
Esha knew him. She had spent the last three hours memorizing his life.
Peter Evans. Head of North American Logistics. Fifty-two years old. Two kids in private school. A mortgage in Connecticut. A gambling problem he thought no one knew about.
"Mr. Khan," Evans said. His voice was shaking. It was thin. "With all due respect. We cannot restructure the logistics chain overnight. It is impossible. We have contracts. We have binding agreements with trucking companies. The contracts run for another three years. If we break them, we face penalties. Millions of dollars in penalties."
Zaviyar did not answer. He did not even blink. He just turned his head slowly. He looked at Esha. He raised one eyebrow.
It was a test.
Show them, his eyes said. Show me what I bought. Show me the blood.
Esha tapped her tablet. She did not hesitate. Esha Roy might have hesitated. Esha Roy might have felt bad for the sweating man. But Anya Sharma? Anya Sharma was a machine.
The screen on the wall flickered. The red line disappeared. A map appeared. It was a complex web of shipping routes. Lines crossing lines. Red dots. Green dots.
"Mr. Evans," Esha said. Her voice was calm. It was quiet. It cut through the room like a razor blade through silk. "I read your contracts. I read them on the plane."
"The contracts are standard," Evans said quickly. Too quickly. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. The handkerchief was grey with grime. "They are industry standard."
"They are not standard," Esha said. She swiped the screen. A spreadsheet appeared. Rows of numbers. "You are using third-party trucking companies for last-mile delivery. You are using them in New Jersey. You are using them in Ohio. You are using them in Pennsylvania."
She looked at him. She stared right at his sweating face.
"Khan Global has its own fleet in those states," she said. "We have five hundred trucks sitting in a lot in Newark. They are empty. They are gathering dust. Why are you paying someone else to move our goods when our own trucks are idle?"
Evans swallowed. His Adam's apple bobbed. "Capacity issues. We... we needed overflow support. The holiday rush..."
"I checked the logs," Esha interrupted. "There was no overflow. The internal fleet was at forty percent utilization. But you paid the third-party vendor four million dollars last month."
The silence in the room changed. It went from nervous to terrified. The other executives looked away. They looked at their hands. They looked at the table. They did not want to be near Evans. They did not want the contagion to spread to them.
"And," Esha continued, swiping to the final slide. "I checked the ownership of the third-party vendor. 'Apex Logistics.' It is a shell company. It is registered in Delaware. It has no website. It has no office."
She paused. She let the silence stretch. She let it hurt.
"It is owned by a holding company," she said. "And that holding company is owned by your brother-in-law. Michael Henderson."
Evans turned grey. All the blood left his face. He looked like he was going to vomit right there on the mahogany table.
"That... that is a coincidence," Evans stammered. He stood up halfway, then sat back down. "He... he offered the best rates. It was a competitive bid."
"They charged twenty percent above the market average," Esha said. "That is not a coincidence, Mr. Evans. That is theft. You are stealing from the company. You are taking money from Zaviyar Khan's pocket and putting it into your family's bank account."
She turned to Zaviyar.
He was watching her. He was leaning back in his big leather chair. He had a finger pressed against his lips. He looked interested. He looked like he was watching a documentary about sharks. He was not angry. He was amused.
"My recommendation," Esha said, looking back at the blank screen. "Termination. Immediate. Cancel the contracts. Sue him for the four million. And call the police."
Zaviyar stood up.
He unfolded his long body. He loomed over the table. He looked like a dark tower.
"You heard her," Zaviyar said softly. His voice was a low rumble. "Get out."
"Mr. Khan, please," Evans begged. He stood up. His chair scraped loudly against the floor. A horrible screeching sound. "I have been here for twenty years. I have kids. Please. It was a mistake. I can fix it."
"Security," Zaviyar said. He did not shout. He just said the word.
The doors opened. Two men stepped out of the shadows. They were big. They wore black suits. They grabbed Evans by the arms.
"No!" Evans shouted. He was crying now. Actual tears. Snot running down his face. "Zaviyar! Please! Don't do this!"
They dragged him out. His heels dragged on the carpet. The doors closed.
The sound of his crying was cut off.
The room was quiet again. But it was a different kind of quiet. It was the quiet of a graveyard. The other executives were terrified. They were shaking. They were wondering if they were next. They were wondering what Esha knew about them.
"Anyone else?" Esha asked. She looked around the table. "Anyone else have a brother-in-law they want to hire? Anyone else charging the company for phantom trucks?"
No one spoke. A man at the end of the table shook his head rapidly.
"Good," Zaviyar said. He sat back down. "Meeting over. Go away. All of you."
The executives scrambled. They grabbed their papers. They grabbed their tablets. They ran. They literally ran out of the room. They pushed through the doors like the building was on fire.
In seconds, the room was empty.
Just Esha. And Zaviyar. And the hum of the projector.
Esha sat still. Her hands were folded on the table. She looked calm. Inside, she was screaming. She felt sick. She had just destroyed a man's life. She had just ruined a family. Evans was a thief, yes. But he was a person.
Zaviyar stood up. He walked over to her. He walked slowly. He stood behind her chair.
She could feel him. She could feel the heat radiating off his body. He was so warm. The room was so cold.
He put his hands on the back of her chair. Leather creaked.
"You are ruthless," he murmured. His voice was right above her head.
"He was stealing," Esha said. She stared at the wood grain of the table. She focused on a scratch in the varnish. "Soldiers who steal get shot. That is the rule."
"I like it," Zaviyar said. He leaned down. His face was next to hers. She could see him in her peripheral vision. Dark stubble. Sharp jaw. "Most people would have hesitated. Most people would have suggested a suspension. You went for the throat."
"Warnings are for children," Esha whispered. "You are at war Zaviyar. You told me you wanted a butcher."
"I did," he said. "But be careful Anya. A knife that is too sharp eventually cuts the hand that holds it. Don't cut me."
Esha turned her head. Their faces were inches apart. His eyes were black. Limitless.
"Then wear gloves," she said.
Zaviyar smiled. It was a small, dark thing.
He straightened up. He buttoned his jacket.
"Tonight," he said. "The Kensington Gala. Be ready at seven."
Esha froze. "A gala? I don't do galas. I work."
"The Roys will be there," Zaviyar said. He walked to the door. "Arjun Roy. And his entourage. I want them to see you. I want them to see my new weapon. I want them to know that I have teeth."
Esha's blood went cold.
Arjun. Her cousin. The boy she grew up with. The boy who knew her laugh. The boy who knew that Esha Roy was allergic to strawberries and hated horror movies.
"Is that an order?" she asked. Her voice was steady. It took all her strength to keep it steady.
"It is a deployment," Zaviyar said. He opened the door. "Wear something dangerous, Anya. Wear something that draws blood."
He walked out.
Esha sat alone in the cold boardroom. The projector hummed. Hummmm.
She looked at her hands. They were shaking. She pressed them flat against the cold table.
She was the weapon. He was pointing her at her own family. And she had to pull the trigger.