Chapter 467: Transatlantic Quarantine

Chapter 464: Transatlantic Quarantine

"I am officially reinstating the quiet hour. Do not make me confiscate your vocal cords."

For exactly fourteen minutes, the sprawling, sunken lounge operated in a state of flawless, engineered perfection. The ambient chill of the climate control system washed over the massive, charcoal suede cushions in a steady, hypnotic rhythm. Salma and Shakira, entirely broken by the sheer gravitational weight of the room’s apathy, sat motionless on the plush rugs, too terrified of the administrative consequences to even clear their throats.

Alex lay horizontally under a midnight-blue silk blanket, his shadowy gaze drifting shut. The elimination of the federal communications threat had been deeply satisfying, but the cognitive energy expended to authorize the buyout still lingered in his system like a toxic residue. He was actively attempting to command his heart rate to drop by three beats per minute.

Then, the heavy teakwood doors clicked open once more.

Paul Heyman stepped into the room. He walked with the heavy, deliberate strides of a general who had just discovered a second front to a war they thought had already been won. He stopped at the edge of the velvet perimeter, his jaw clenched tight.

"Boss," Heyman rumbled, his voice low but laced with a lethal urgency. "I know the quiet hour is in effect. But the contagion has crossed the ocean."

Alex did not open his eyes. He let out a long, resonant exhale of profound spiritual suffering.

"Paul. The concept of an ocean implies thousands of miles of incredibly deep, highly pressurized saltwater," Alex murmured, his tone flat and unyielding. "It is a massive geographical barrier designed by the earth to prevent people from bothering me. Why are you bringing international grievances into a purely domestic airspace?"

"Because Lord Alistair Covington doesn’t respect the barrier, Mr. Turner," Heyman replied smoothly. "He is the Chairman of the Euro-Asian Broadcast Coalition. He saw the collapse of the American studios, and instead of surrendering, he consolidated. He just orchestrated a hard, legally binding embargo across the entire European Union and Asian markets. Every television network, cinema chain, and distribution hub east of the Atlantic has blacked out Tyrant Group content."

Jennifer Aniston uncrossed her legs, her posture shifting from absolute relaxation to predatory alertness. "Covington is legacy royalty, Paul. He thinks because he operates out of London, our offshore liquidity can’t touch him."

"He believes he has us geographically quarantined, Ms. Aniston," Heyman confirmed. "He is attempting to starve our international revenue streams. He assumes the CEO won’t expend the energy to fly to Europe to negotiate."

Salma bit her lip, her eyes darting toward Alex. The sheer scale of the attack was staggering. A transatlantic media blockade was not something you could ignore.

Alex, however, remained entirely motionless.

"Flying to London requires boarding a pressurized metal tube and hurtling through the stratosphere for ten hours," Alex lectured softly, addressing the ceiling. "It induces catastrophic jet lag, disrupts the circadian rhythm, and forces the human spine into an upright, seated position. I absolutely refuse to cross a time zone to argue with an aristocrat."

"Then how do we break the embargo, Alex?" Monica Bellucci asked, her rich Italian accent thick with malicious anticipation. She pushed herself up from the suede cushions, ready to be unleashed.

"An embargo is a defensive wall, Monica. Walls require guards, and guards require constant, exhausting vigilance," Alex reasoned seamlessly. "Vigilance is a tragic drain on the adrenal glands. We do not attack his wall. We simply sever his supply lines."

Alex opened his eyes, his gaze locking onto Jennifer and Monica with terrifying, apex-predator clarity.

"Lord Covington relies on the continuous transmission of digital advertising revenue between the American corporate sector and his European networks," Alex dictated perfectly, his voice never rising above a lazy drawl. "Those financial feeds do not travel through the air. They travel through the deep-sea transatlantic fiber-optic cables. Do not hire international lawyers. Purchase the ocean floor."

Heyman’s eyes widened, a dark, thrilled grin breaking across his face.

"Jennifer. Monica," Alex commanded smoothly. "Acquire the holding companies that maintain the Atlantic cable grid. Once Tyrant Group is the majority shareholder, reclassify Covington’s media coalition as an unauthorized data parasite. Physically shut down his routing protocols. Blind his empire."

"Consider it done, Mr. CEO," Jennifer purred, a wicked spark in her eyes. She linked her arm through Monica’s, and the two women glided toward the west wing communications hub, flanked by Heyman. They were no longer actresses; they were the automated executioners of a billionaire who refused to leave his couch.

London, England. Euro-Asian Broadcast Coalition, Executive Headquarters.

The boardroom overlooking the Thames River was a monument to old-world European arrogance. Lord Alistair Covington, a man who wore his bespoke tweed suits like a coat of armor, stood at the head of a massive mahogany table. His posture was impeccably rigid. He looked at the assembly of European media executives with cold, aristocratic pride.

"The Americans are weak," Covington stated crisply, tapping his gold fountain pen against the table. "They allowed a twenty-two-year-old child to buy their banks and terrorize their agencies because they lack discipline. We have locked down the Eastern Hemisphere. Not a single frame of Tyrant Group media will broadcast in our territories. He is effectively quarantined in California."

"Lord Covington," a French distribution executive raised a hand, looking slightly nervous. "Turner has infinite liquidity. What if he attempts a hostile buyout of our European banking partners?"

"We are protected by parliamentary trade laws," Covington sneered dismissively. "He cannot buy European banks without a two-year regulatory review. He is trapped. By the end of the month, his investors will panic, and he will be forced to sell his American assets to us for pennies on the pound."

Covington turned his attention to the massive digital ticker mounted on the boardroom wall. It displayed the real-time influx of advertising revenue flowing from American corporate sponsors—the financial lifeblood of their international network.

"Watch the ticker, gentlemen," Covington smiled coldly. "That is the sound of our victory."

Suddenly, the numbers on the digital ticker slowed.

Then, they stopped completely.

The screen blinked, the bright green numbers fading into a dull, static gray. A moment later, the live feed of their flagship news broadcast on the secondary monitor froze, buffering into a pixelated mess before turning completely black.

Covington frowned, his aristocratic composure cracking slightly. "Get the technical director on the line. Why did we lose the Wall Street feed?"

Before anyone could reach for a phone, the heavy doors to the boardroom were pushed open. The Chief of Operations walked in. He was not walking with purpose; he was walking like a man who had just witnessed an execution. His face was entirely devoid of color.

"My Lord," the operations chief whispered, his voice trembling. "We haven’t just lost the Wall Street feed. We have lost everything."

"Speak clearly, man," Covington snapped, his heart rate spiking involuntarily. "Did a server go down?"

"The servers are fine," the chief replied, dropping a printed telemetry report onto the mahogany table. "The transatlantic cables... the physical fiber-optic lines running beneath the ocean. We have been completely severed from the American data grid."

"Severed?" Covington scoffed, leaning forward. "That’s impossible. Those lines are maintained by a neutral maritime conglomerate. They don’t cut off paying clients."

"They were neutral until twenty minutes ago," the chief gasped, pulling at his collar. "Tyrant Group LLC executed a shadow buyout of the maritime holding companies. Turner owns the ocean cables. He just issued a localized blackout specifically targeting our IP addresses. We cannot receive American advertising data. We cannot broadcast to the Western Hemisphere. Our corporate sponsors in New York are currently seeing dead air."

The room plunged into a suffocating, horrifying silence.

Covington stared at the black screens, his hands gripping the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles turned white. The cold, calculated arrogance drained from his body, replaced by a profound, existential terror.

Alex Turner hadn’t bothered to navigate European trade laws. He hadn’t sent negotiators. He had simply looked at the map, found the physical cord that plugged Covington’s empire into the global economy, and pulled it out of the wall.

"He cut the cables," Covington whispered, the reality of his total systemic ruin crashing down upon him. "He didn’t even try to breach our borders. He just turned us into an island."

They were trapped in a fortress of their own making, holding an ironclad embargo against a man who had just quietly, effortlessly deleted their entire international revenue stream.

Trousdale Estates, Los Angeles.

The heavy doors to the sanctuary glided open.

Jennifer and Monica returned to the velvet pit, their expressions radiating the serene, unbothered satisfaction of a completed task. Paul Heyman stepped in behind them, snapping his portfolio shut with a definitive, echoing thud.

"The quarantine is active, Boss," Heyman reported, his gravelly voice thick with awe. "The transatlantic data feeds have been severed. Covington’s broadcast network is entirely isolated from the American advertising markets. His corporate sponsors are panic-pulling their contracts. The coalition is bleeding millions of dollars a minute."

Salma Hayek stared at Alex, her breath hitching in her throat. The sheer, terrifying scale of the retaliation was beyond human comprehension.

"Flawless delegation," Alex murmured, his eyes remaining gently closed as he sank deeper into the charcoal suede cushions. "You see, Salma? A true conqueror does not scale the castle walls. He simply buys the river outside and builds a dam."

Gillian leaned over, tracing a lazy circle on his shoulder. "You just disconnected a continent from the internet because you didn’t want to deal with jet lag."

"Jet lag is an unforgivable biological insult, Gillian," Alex corrected smoothly, his tone perfectly flat. "Now. The international theater has been permanently pacified. The external universe no longer possesses the bandwidth to complain. I am officially initiating my afternoon recovery sequence. Anyone who speaks above a whisper will be subjected to the same digital fate as Lord Covington."