Chapter 8 - Silas's BetrayalMidnight struck at the designated rendezvous point behind the old fish cannery. The snow had stopped, leaving a pristine, deadly white blanket over the harbor docks under a pale, frosty moon.
Roland and Clara waited in the deep shadows of a rusted shipping container. Silas, true to his word, pulled up in a sleek black town car, stepping out cautiously into the frigid night air. He held a heavy metal briefcase tightly against his chest, scanning the darkness with anxious eyes.
"Boss? Boss, are you here?" Silas called out, his voice shaking.
Roland stepped out from the shadows into the moonlight, his face bruised and bandaged, but his presence as commanding as ever. Silas let out a ragged breath of relief, rushing forward.
"Thank God! Curtis has the entire city on high alert—" Silas started, handing over the heavy briefcase.
Roland popped the latches. Inside lay the physical bearer bonds, the encrypted ledger, and a spare firearm. He checked the clip—fully loaded.
"Good work, Silas," Roland said, eyeing his longtime accountant. "You didn't tail anyone on your way here?"
Silas paused. A fraction of a second too long. His eyes darted nervously toward the empty road behind him. "No, Boss. I covered my tracks completely. I'm entirely loyal to you."
Roland’s eyes narrowed into lethal slits. He didn't lower his gun. He raised it, pointing the barrel straight at Silas’s chest.
Clara gasped, stepping forward. "Roland, what are you doing? He brought the briefcase!"
"Look at his shoes, Clara," Roland commanded coldly.
Clara looked down. Silas’s expensive leather shoes were pristine—no mud, no snow, no ice. Yet, the road leading to the cannery was a slushy, muddy mess from the thaw. Furthermore, the cuff of Silas’s trousers bore a tiny speck of fresh, violet UV ink—the exact tracking dye Curtis’s internal security squad used on all high-level surveillance targets.
Silas’s face drained of all color. He stumbled backward, dropping his panicked facade.
"You sold me out to Curtis the moment you thought I was dead, didn't you, Silas?" Roland’s voice was dangerously calm, like the surface of a frozen lake right before the ice breaks.
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Before Silas could stammer an excuse, headlights swept across the yard. Three black SUVs tore around the corner, screeching to a halt and surrounding them in a semicircle of blinding high-beams.
Curtis Hale stepped out of the lead vehicle, clapping his hands slowly, a wicked grin plastered across his face.
