Chapter 4 - THE CONFESSION IN THE BOOTHCalder’s knees buckled. He slid down the counter until he was sitting on the checkered linoleum, his expensive camel coat dragging in the spilled coffee and blood.
"You can't kill me," Calder muttered, panic leaking through his bravado. "If I don't check in with the syndicate's inner circle by four o'clock, a digital dead man's switch triggers. Every asset Valenti owns—and every dark secret he's hiding—gets broadcast to federal prosecutors and every rival cartel from here to Miami. You'll destroy him too."
I glanced back at Adrian.
Adrian had dragged himself over to one of the red vinyl booths, clutching his bleeding arm, his face pale under the harsh neon lights. Despite the blood loss, a grim, humorless smile touched his lips.
"Let it burn, Calder," Adrian said, his voice raspy but steady. "I built this empire, and if it's rotten to the core because of men like you and the board members you installed behind my back, it deserves to rot in the open."
Calder glared at him, furious. "You're insane, Valenti. You'll spend the rest of your life in a federal supermax."
"Better a cage than a leash," Adrian replied coldly.
I lowered the Glock slightly, keeping it aimed at Calder’s center mass. "Forget the dead man's switch, Calder. Right now, you're going to tell me every single name on the board of directors who signed off on the trafficking ring. And then, you're going to help us clean up this diner before the sun comes up."
Calder let out a bitter, exhausted laugh. "You think you've won? You think killing or capturing us changes anything? The organization is bigger than Valenti, bigger than me, and infinitely bigger than a washed-up assassin hiding behind a diner apron."
"Maybe," I said, stepping closer and pressing the cold barrel of the pistol directly against his forehead. "锚But you won't be around to see how it ends. Now... start talking."
Sweat beaded on Calder's forehead. He looked into my eyes, and whatever he saw there convinced him that negotiation was over.
"The main server," Calder whispered, his voice cracking. "It's not at corporate headquarters. It's offshore. But the physical master keys... they're in a safety deposit box at the First National Bank downtown. The key is in my breast pocket."
I reached down with my left hand, keeping my eyes locked on his, and slipped my fingers into his coat pocket. My fingers brushed against a cold, heavy metal key attached to a leather fob.
May you like
"Good dog," I murmured, slipping it into my own pocket.
Suddenly, the wail of police sirens cut through the quiet Chicago night, growing louder by the second.
