Chapter 4 - THE SYNDICATE'S ULTIMATUMThe harbor wind whipped Arthur Vane’s bespoke Italian overcoat around his ankles as he stood on the Citadel’s private helipad. At sixty years old, Arthur possessed the sharp, angular features of a man who had never done a day of honest work in his life, yet commanded empires with a stroke of a pen. Behind him stood a dozen heavily armed private security guards, their rifles aimed at the fortified glass doors of the mansion.
Arthur checked his gold Patek Philippe watch.
— Two minutes, he muttered to his second-in-command, a scarred giant named Kravitz. — If Alfred Christa doesn't bring the girl out himself, level the structure. Leave no stone standing. The board cannot afford for that key to ever reach a federal prosecutor.
Before Kravitz could bark the order, the heavy glass doors of the Citadel slid open with a soft hiss.
There were no guards holding hostages. There was no army of underworld thugs pouring out.
Only one man walked through the threshold.
Alfred Christa.
He wore no coat, despite the freezing harbor gale. His black shirt sleeves were rolled up, exposing the intricate, dark tattoos winding up his forearms like coiled serpents. In his right hand, he held a smoking cigar; in his left, he casually tossed Mila’s titanium key up into the air and caught it, over and over again.
Arthur Vane’s eyes locked onto the key. A muscle twitched in his jaw.
— Alfred, Arthur said, his voice dripping with forced cordiality as he stepped forward. — I must admit, I didn't expect the King of the Underworld to moonlight as a babysitter.
— And I didn't expect corporate rats to start slaughtering families in the dead of winter, Alfred replied, his voice cutting through the wind like a razor. He stopped twenty feet away, blowing a ring of gray smoke into the cold air. — You made a mess in my territory, Arthur.
— That girl possesses property that belongs to the Vane financial trust, Arthur snapped, his aristocratic veneer slipping to reveal the desperate predator beneath. — Data worth billions. Her father stole it. Hand over the girl and the key, Alfred, and I’ll let you walk away from this property intact. Refuse, and your entire empire—every dock, every warehouse, every shell corporation you own—will be crushed by federal indictments by sunset. I own the politicians, Christa. I own the judges.
Alfred listened in silence. When Arthur finished, a slow, cold smile touched the corners of Alfred’s mouth—a smile that made even Kravitz instinctively step back.
— You think this is about money, Arthur? Alfred asked softly.
— Isn't it always?
— No, Alfred said, his eyes locking onto Arthur’s with terrifying intensity. — This is about boundaries. You brought your war into my streets. You terrified a little child who sleeps on trash. And worst of all...
Alfred dropped his cigar onto the concrete, grinding it out slowly beneath the heel of his boot.
— ...you assumed I’d negotiate.
Alfred raised two fingers.
Across the cliffside, hidden inside the sheer limestone rock face, a dozen heavy metal hatches blew open with deafening explosions.
Thump-thump-thump!
Anti-aircraft missile batteries—salvaged from decommissioned naval frigates and secretly installed beneath the cliff—swiveled upward, their red laser targeting systems painting every single member of Arthur’s security detail dead center in the chest.
May you like
Arthur’s face drained completely of color. His mouth opened, but no words came out.
— Say hello to your board of directors for me, Alfred whispered.
