Chapter 24 - THE INTERROGATION AT THE HARBORTwo hours later, the storm had passed, leaving behind a cold, crystalline sky and puddles that mirrored the pale light of dawn.
Inside the reinforced cargo office at Berth 14—now secured by Marco and his team—Miller sat handcuffed to a heavy metal folding chair. A nasty bruise was swelling along his left jawline where Marco had politely corrected his posture upon capture. Marcus Thorne sat cowering in the corner, shaking uncontrollably as he stared at the floor.
Roman stood leaning against a scarred wooden desk, his arms crossed over his chest, looking down at Miller with the detached curiosity of a scientist observing a specimen under a microscope. Elena stood near the doorway, sipping a cup of black coffee Marco had brewed from a portable thermos.
Who financed the Newark shipment, Miller? Roman asked, his voice low and devoid of anger. Julian is in a black site in Marseilles awaiting trial. Viktor is locked in Colorado. Who has the capital and the clearance to buy military-grade intercept gear on the black market?
Miller spat a thin line of blood onto the concrete floor, sneering up at Roman. You think you beat the board just because you wiped some servers in Zurich, Marino? You only clipped the branches. The roots go deeper than you’ll ever know.
Elena took a slow sip of her coffee, walking calmly across the room until she stood directly beside Roman. She looked down at Miller, her dark eyes completely unreadable.
The roots don't matter if there's no tree left to feed them, Miller, Elena said smoothly. Now, you can tell us which member of the inner council survived the purge, or we can hand you over to the federal task force currently waiting outside in unmarked vans. And trust me, federal prison is much less accommodating than our sub-basement.
Miller’s defiant sneer flickered for a fraction of a second. His eyes darted to Thorne, then back to Elena. He knew as well as anyone that federal prosecutors were eager to cut a deal, but he also knew the reach of the syndicate’s remaining elders.
It’s not a council member, Miller muttered, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. It’s the logistics partner. The man who handled the offshore accounts while your father was running the syndicate, Elena.
Elena’s posture stiffened imperceptibly. Her coffee cup remained steady, but the air in the room grew noticeably colder.
Vince Sterling, she stated, more as a fact than a question.
Miller nodded slowly. He’s been moving capital through shell companies in the Cayman Islands for six months. He doesn't want your empire, Marino. He wants the trust fund Elena set up for your daughter. He claims it belongs by right to the syndicate's legacy foundation.
Roman uncrossed his arms, standing up straight. He looked at Marco, who was standing by the door monitoring a secure tablet.
Run a trace on Vince Sterling’s primary holding corporation, Roman ordered. Find out where he’s anchoring his communications.
Marco’s fingers flew across the screen. Already on it, boss. Triangulating now... wait. Signal detected. It’s not offshore. It’s domestic.
Where? Elena asked sharply.
May you like
Greenwich, Marco replied, his eyes widening in disbelief. The signal is bouncing off a residential relay tower less than two miles from your own estate.
Roman and Elena exchanged a single, electric glance. The battlefield wasn't in Europe, and it wasn't at the Newark docks. It was right in their own backyard.
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