Chapter 9: The People vs. Davenport

In the sterile chill of the basement, the world had shrunk to the size of a single laptop screen. On it, the live feed from the Founder’s Day Gala played out in pristine high definition. The distant, muffled wail of a fire alarm at the far end of the country club was a footnote, a minor inconvenience the mingling elite were already ignoring. On the stage, the Master of Ceremonies, a portly man named Howard Finch, beamed at the crowd.

“And now,” he announced, his voice booming with practiced reverence, “a short tribute to a man whose vision has shaped our very town. The Man of the Year, Mr. Marcus Davenport!”

Applause, polite but firm, rippled through the tent. The live stream camera zoomed in on Marcus as he gave a gracious, magnanimous nod from his seat of honor. Beside him, Dave smirked, basking in the reflected glory.

In Leo’s ear, a frantic, breathless whisper from Sarah crackled through the comms. “The alarm bought me thirty seconds. Everyone’s looking at the stage. It’s in. The lipstick is in the machine.”

Leo’s heart hammered against his ribs. A new network ID, one visible only to him, appeared on his terminal. The tunnel was open. He had a direct, untraceable line into the heart of their presentation. He typed the final command he’d prepared days ago, his fingers steady despite the tremor running through his entire body.

INITIATE_PROTOCOL: SHOWTIME

He looked at Jenna. She stood behind him, a statue of pure, focused vengeance, her eyes glued to the image of Marcus Davenport on the screen. She gave a single, sharp nod.

Leo hit Enter.

On the massive screens flanking the stage, the official tribute video began. It opened with a soft-focus shot of the Davenport Tower downtown, set to an inspiring orchestral score. The narrator’s voice, smooth and deep, began to speak of charity, community, and leadership.

For three agonizing seconds, nothing happened. A cold knot of dread tightened in Mike’s stomach. “Leo… did it work?”

Before Leo could answer, the screen flickered.

The inspiring music cut out with a harsh digital screech. The image of the Davenport Tower vanished, replaced by a stark, black screen. A collective gasp went through the gala tent. On stage, Howard Finch tapped his microphone, a confused frown on his face. Marcus Davenport leaned forward in his chair, his smile faltering.

Then, a new image appeared. It was the home screen of an OmniPhone X, instantly recognizable to half the people in the room. A text message notification popped up. It was from Dave Davenport.

The screen split, showing a conversation. “Dude she’s so easy lol. One word from my dad and her dad’s out of a job,” one of Dave’s messages read, superimposed over a crying selfie of a girl from their high school.

A low murmur rippled through the crowd. Dave, sitting in the front row, went rigid, his face draining of color.

The montage had begun. It was a brutal, ninety-second descent into the filth hidden behind the Davenport name. Cruel DMs from Dave about his teammates. Screenshots of him bragging about cheating. An audio clip, clear as day, of him threatening a smaller kid in the locker room. The whispers in the tent grew louder, more shocked.

Then, the focus shifted.

The screen went black again. This time, the voice that filled the silence was Marcus Davenport’s, captured from a saved voicemail Leo had unearthed. “You’ll take the offer, Jim. Or you’ll find out just how quickly a building inspector can condemn a property your family has owned for fifty years. It’s your choice.”

The screen lit up with a scanned copy of an eviction notice for a beloved local diner that had closed down six months earlier. The owner, Jim Peterson, was in the audience. He shot to his feet, his face a mask of vindicated fury.

The floodgates were open. Next came the grainy blackmail photo of Councilman Hines meeting a woman who was not his wife, displayed next to the official town record of his last-second, inexplicable vote to approve the North Hill zoning variance. The councilman looked like he was about to be sick.

The chaos in the tent was building. People were standing up, shouting. Phones were out, dozens of them, recording the screens, their small lights a constellation of judgment. The live stream camera, operated by a panicked technician, was panning wildly between the damning evidence on the screen and the horrified faces of the town’s elite.

“Shut it down!” Marcus Davenport roared, finally finding his voice. He was on his feet, his face purple with rage, pointing a shaking finger at the tech booth. “Shut it down now!”

But the video was a virus, and it had reached its final, most potent stage.

The triumphant press release from the university, announcing Dave as the winner of the Ashton Scholarship, filled the screens. Then, overlaid on top of it, the text of the final, damning email chain began to type itself out, letter by letter.

From Marcus Davenport to Dr. Alistair Finch. ‘My son David is very keen on the Ashton Scholarship. What can be done?’

From Dr. Finch. ‘The recipient is a Jenna Carter. My hands are tied.’

And then, the final, soul-destroying reply from Marcus. The words appeared in a blood-red font, dominating the screen as a picture of Jenna’s hopeful, smiling yearbook photo materialized beside them.

‘Alistair, I suggest you find a way to tie your hands differently. An anonymous tip regarding Miss Carter’s ‘extraordinary’ essay might be a good place to start. Let me know when it’s done.’

A woman in the audience shrieked. The university president, seated at the head table, looked at Marcus Davenport with an expression of pure horror. The lie, the theft, the sheer, naked corruption of it all was laid bare for the entire world to see.

In the basement, no one moved. No one breathed. They watched the inferno they had created. Jenna stared at her own face on the screen, a ghost from a past where she still had hope. A single, hot tear traced a path down her cheek, but it wasn't a tear of sadness. It was a tear of absolution.

The video ended. The screens went black.

“It’s done,” Leo whispered. He initiated the final sequence.

EXECUTE: WORM.EXE

He hit Enter one last time.

In the gala tent, the MacBook Pro in the A/V booth sparked. The screens died completely. The live stream feed cut to a static test pattern. In that single moment, every log file was wiped. The network card was fried. Every trace of their presence, every digital footprint, was incinerated. They were ghosts once more, vanished into the ether.

The four of them stared at the static on their own monitor. The show was over. The silence in the basement was a deafening contrast to the cacophony of shouts, accusations, and sirens they could now hear faintly through the news feed.

They had done it. They had aimed their weapon not at a bank account, but at a name. And in ninety seconds, they had burned that name to ash in front of the very people who had once revered it. The Davenport empire wasn't just crumbling; it had been publicly, spectacularly, and irrevocably executed. And the whole world had watched.