Chapter 5 - The Termination of Gerald Collins
An hour later, the top floor of the Kane Global tower was dead silent.
The executive boardroom lights were dimmed, but the atmosphere inside was hotter than a blast furnace.
Gerald Collins, the forty-five-year-old Director of Facilities Management, stood stiffly in the center of the room. He wore a crisp, tailored gray suit, a thick gold Rolex watch, and an expression of confident annoyance. He had been called up from his basement office on twenty minutes' notice and assumed it was about next quarter's sanitation budget.
Sitting at the head of the long walnut table was Adrian Kane.
He hadn't taken off his coat. He hadn't sat down. He stood leaning against the edge of the mahogany table, his arms crossed over his chest, staring at Collins with eyes like chipped flint.
Flanking the door were two private security guards in tactical black uniforms.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Kane?” Collins asked, clearing his throat nervously. “I was just reviewing the night-shift supply requisitions for the sub-basement levels—”
“Gerald,” Adrian interrupted, his voice terrifyingly quiet.
“Yes, sir?”
Adrian reached into his breast pocket, pulled out the neon-pink piece of paper Sarah had handed him earlier, and tossed it onto the polished walnut table. It slid across the wood and stopped right at Collins’s leather shoes.
Collins looked down at it. A tiny flicker of panic crossed his eyes, though he quickly masked it.
“Ah. The attendance warning for Elena Miller,” Collins said smoothly, adjusting his cuffs. “Look, Mr. Kane, I know it looks harsh, but our contractor guidelines are strict. We have performance metrics to maintain. Cleaners call out sick constantly; if we don't enforce strict penalties, the whole building falls behind schedule. It’s just standard operational procedure—”
“Operational procedure,” Adrian repeated softly.
He pushed himself off the table and walked slowly toward Collins. Every step he took felt like a hammer striking an anvil.
“Mr. Collins, how long have you been running the facilities department?”
“Four years, sir.”
“And during those four years, how many times have you overridden the medical leave clause for contracted cleaning staff?”
Collins blinked, sweating slightly under the collar. “Well, contractors aren't technically company employees under the Tier-4 classification, so—”
“I asked you a direct question,” Adrian barked, his voice cracking like a whip across the silent room. “How many times?”
“Zero,” Collins muttered, staring at the floor. “The system is automated.”
“The system is automated,” Adrian echoed with a chilling laugh. “Is it also automated when you take twenty percent of the night-shift supply budget and route it through a shell cleaning-supply vendor registered under your brother-in-law’s name in New Jersey?”
Collins went completely, sheet-white. His jaw went slack.
“I—I don't know what you’re talking about—”
“Of course you don't,” Adrian said, turning around and walking over to his desk. He picked up a thick manila folder that had been compiled by his private corporate audit team within the last forty-five minutes.
“Within the last hour, my forensic accountants pulled every invoice, every purchase order, and every attendance log from your department,” Adrian said, tossing the heavy folder at Collins’s chest. The Director of Facilities stumbled backward, catching it awkwardly.
“You’ve embezzled nearly four hundred thousand dollars in ghost-employee wages and inflated supply costs over three years,” Adrian continued, his voice dripping with venom. “You implemented a zero-tolerance medical policy specifically designed to intimidate hourly workers into silence so they wouldn't report unsafe chemical exposure or payroll discrepancies. And this morning, you handed a final termination notice to the widow of my best friend.”
Collins swallowed hard, his voice trembling. “Mr. Kane... please... we can talk about this—let's handle this through HR—”
“HR is currently clearing out your desk as we speak,” Adrian said coldly. “By noon, the New York County District Attorney’s office will receive copies of these financial records. You are looking at a minimum of fifteen years in federal prison for wire fraud, extortion, and corporate embezzlement.”
The two tactical security guards stepped forward instantly, each grabbing Collins by an arm.
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“Get him out of my sight,” Adrian ordered without looking back.
Collins thrashed weakly, stammering apologies and pleas as he was dragged backward out of the conference room, the heavy double doors slamming shut behind him with a final, echoing thud.
