Chapter 2 - THE INTERROGATION ROOM OF SHADOWSThe interrogation room in the federal building downtown smelled of stale coffee, old paper, and institutional bleach.
The two-way mirror occupied nearly the entire length of the eastern wall. Behind it, three high-ranking federal prosecutors and the Director of the FBI’s Organized Crime Task Force watched in absolute silence.
Inside the room, Leo Buckland sat unshackled. He refused the handcuffs at the scene, and not a single agent had been brave enough to force the issue, especially with Rocco lying quietly across Leo’s boots under the metal table.
The door clicked open, and Special Agent-in-Charge Marcus Vance stepped in, tossing a thick manila folder onto the table.
"Impressive empire you built, Leo," Vance said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. "Twenty years. Dozens of shell companies, international logistics, ports under your thumb. And it all ends because your own lieutenant got greedy and tried to bury an undercover cop."
Leo didn't blink. He stirred a packet of sugar into a black cup of coffee he hadn't touched. "Vincent is dead to me. Figuratively speaking."
"Vincent is facing life without parole," Vance corrected smoothly. "Unless he cuts a deal. And he’s talking, Leo. He’s telling us about the docks, the payoffs, the politicians in your pocket. Unless..." Vance leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "Unless you have something better to trade."
"And what would that be?" Leo asked, his voice low and dangerous.
"Jonathan Carr." Vance tapped the manila folder. "Officer Carr spent six months embedded in your inner circle. He knows where the bodies are buried—literally. But here's the twist, Leo. When our tactical team pulled Carr out of that grave, we checked his encrypted field radio. Do you know what he transmitted to his handler thirty minutes before Vincent drugged him?"
Leo’s eyes narrowed by a fraction of a millimeter. "Tell me."
"He called off the raid," Vance said quietly. "He told his commanding officer that the Buckland syndicate was shifting away from international arms smuggling. He reported that you were liquidating assets to go legit. He protected you, Leo. An undercover cop lied to the federal government to protect a mafia boss."
Leo stared at the coffee cup. Images flashed through his mind—Johnny standing beside him during the warehouse raids, Johnny taking a knife to the shoulder to protect a shipment of medical supplies Leo was laundering, Johnny laughing over beers at midnight in the safe house.
"Where is he?" Leo asked, his voice suddenly hollow.
"Medical wing," Vance replied. "Severe oxygen deprivation, bruised ribs, internal bleeding from the dirt weight. He’s heavily sedated. The department wants to strip his badge for insubordination and treason. They think he turned native."
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Leo stood up slowly. Rocco rose with him, a massive wall of black fur and silent intimidation.
"If the department touches him," Leo said, looking directly into the two-way mirror where the prosecutors were watching, "I won't need a courtroom to finish what Vincent started."
