Chapter 16 - The Price of Redemption
"You're too late, Sterling," I gasped, blood trickling from a split lip down onto the dusty concrete. "The feds have the digital backups. Vance already uploaded the core files to the federal mainframe downtown."
Sterling didn't look worried. He knelt down beside me, his expensive silk tie brushing against my shoulder as he pressed the barrel of his revolver directly against my temple. The cold steel felt like an icicle against my skin.
"Agent Vance is a bureaucrat, Nate. Bureaucrat files can be subpoenaed, lost in transit, or quietly shredded by a federal judge who happens to be on our payroll," Sterling said smoothly, his eyes cold as winter ice. "The only thing that matters is the original ledger. And your brother just brought it right to our front door."
Before I could answer, heavy footsteps thundered up the metal stairs behind Sterling.
Not one set of footsteps—dozens.
The door burst open, and a wall of tactical shields bearing the blue-and-gold insignia of the FBI Organized Crime Task Force flooded the hallway, their automatic weapons locked onto Sterling’s chest.
"Drop the weapon, Sterling! Federal agents! Hands where we can see 'em!" Agent Vance’s voice cut through the narrow corridor like a razor blade.
Sterling froze. He looked down at the gun in his hand, then up at the dozen laser sights painting red dots across his chest and face. Slowly, with exaggerated care, he opened his fingers and let the snub-nosed revolver clatter to the concrete floor.
"You think this is a victory, Agent Vance?" Sterling sneer-smiled as two tactical officers forced him to his knees, slapping heavy steel handcuffs onto his wrists with a sharp, metallic snap. "You arrest me, and within forty-eight hours my legal team will have me out on bail. The syndicate doesn't die because one lawyer goes to federal prison."
"Maybe not," Vance said, stepping forward past the line of tactical shields. She didn't look at Sterling; she looked down at me as I pushed myself up off the floor, clutching my bruised wrist. "But the syndicate doesn't run Chicago anymore either. We found the secondary backup drives in the Lincoln's dashboard compartment. Vincent Moretti knew what he was doing."
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"Where's Vincent?" I asked, my blood running cold as I remembered the sound of the V8 engine roaring up the ramp just before the sniper opened fire.
Vance’s face hardened. She didn't answer immediately. She just turned and gestured for two officers to clear the way down to the ground-floor parking garage.
