Chapter 189: Danger Closes In

Chapter 189: Danger Closes In

Thompson's face changed in an instant.

Sandis's voice stayed calm and unhurried, but every word cut straight to the bone. "From what I hear, that cousin of yours—the one missing a couple fingers—he's the CEO on paper for that black-market shell company of yours."

"Front man." Sandis let the word hang. "Guys like that are born to eat the charges. That's the whole point of them."

Thompson shot up out of his chair, both hands slamming flat against the table.

"He's my blood!"

He forced the fury boiling up in his chest back down. "I made him the front man so we could split the money easier—not so he could take the fall for me!"

Sandis rose too.

He stood half a head taller than Thompson, looking down at him with a pity in his eyes usually reserved for insects.

"Thompson. You've survived in Nevada this long. Don't tell me you still don't know how the game works."

He came around the wide desk and settled a hand on Thompson's shoulder, giving it a pat.

"In this game, if you won't feed your own blood to the wolves, you become the meal yourself."

Sandis raised a single finger. "I'm giving you two options. Number one—you release the deal footage, and we all go down together. Mutually assured destruction."

"For me, that means losing this union job and getting buried on the inside for a couple years. Once the heat dies down, I climb right back up. But you? Those Wall Street lawyers will strip you down to your last pair of boxers. You'll spend the rest of your life dropping the soap in a federal pen."

Then a second finger went up. "Number two—your idiot cousin takes the whole thing on his back."

"Once he's gone, there's no one left to testify. I bring the union's weight down and put the entire state's logistics on strike, force Elizabeth to fold. And we sail on together, still raking it in."

Thompson stood rooted in place, veins bulging at his temple, his throat working hard as he swallowed.

Sandis didn't press him for an answer on the spot. He smoothed his bespoke suit with an easy grace and strolled toward the conference room door.

At the threshold, he paused and threw one last glance back at Thompson.

"You've got twenty-four hours to think it over. Don't make me wait too long."

...

Thompson stood alone in the conference room for a long time.

By the time he walked out of the union building, his legs had gone rubbery beneath him. He nearly rolled an ankle coming down the steps.

Correa was leaning against the door of the Lincoln Navigator, smoking. The second he saw Thompson emerge, he flicked the cigarette away and hurried over.

"Cuz! Cuz!"

Correa called out several times before Thompson's glassy, unfocused eyes finally locked back onto him.

"Huh... what?"

Correa pressed in close, studying the storm shifting across Thompson's face. "How'd it go, cuz? You look like hell."

Thompson dragged in a deep breath and scrubbed a hand roughly down his face, forcing a light, easy smile. "It's handled. I worked everything out with Mr. Sandis. He's bringing the union in to protect us."

Correa's face lit up. In his excitement he swung his bandaged stump of a hand, then sucked in a sharp hiss through his teeth from the pain—but the thrill didn't leave his eyes.

"Hell yeah!"

"Cuz, you have no idea—sitting out here in that car, the more I thought about it, the more scared I got. I really thought all that cash we busted our asses for was gone!"

Correa rubbed his palms together, eyes glittering. "I ran the numbers before. What we've got stashed in those offshore accounts? It's enough to buy ourselves a little island in the Caribbean and burn through the rest of our lives in style!"

Thompson kept his head down and gave a low grunt of agreement, something complicated flickering behind his eyes.

Correa was too deep in his own joy to catch the flash of cold cruelty that surfaced and vanished in Thompson's gaze.

The car merged into the flow of traffic on the main road.

Correa drove up front, focused. Thompson sat in the back, replaying Sandis's devilish murmur over and over in his head:

"I just lose the job. You eat a life sentence."

Slowly, Thompson lifted his head, watching the back of Correa's skull through the rearview mirror. His eyes hardened, cold and resolved once more.

"Correa."

"There's something I need to tell you."

Correa flicked a glance at him in the mirror. "What's up, cuz?"

Thompson spoke slowly. "You're the legal name on paper for that black-market company. The second Elizabeth's audit team moves in tomorrow and starts chasing down criminal liability, they'll come straight for you—the guy whose name is on all the documents."

"So I've been thinking. To be safe, I want you to head overseas for a few years. Lay low."

He kept his tone warm and caring as he sold the dream. "Once I get the union to smooth things over on this end and scrub the books clean, you come back home in style."

Correa was quiet for two seconds. Then, to Thompson's surprise, he nodded, his voice oddly calm.

"No problem. The day I took the money to play front man, I always knew a day like this would come, that I'd have to run."

Correa paused, his voice dropping a notch. "But my mom... your aunt. I'm counting on you to take care of her."

Thompson leaned forward slightly and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

"Goes without saying. We're blood, brother. Thicker than water."

He pulled a black Swiss bank card from an inside pocket and passed it up front.

"There's five million bucks of clean money on this. Take it. Once you get settled down in South America, buy yourself a new identity, then reach out to me."

Correa took the card one-handed, thumbing across its surface—and then abruptly stamped on the brakes.

He turned his head, a thread of hesitation and suspicion in his voice. "Cuz... you're not sending me abroad so you can put a hitter on me somewhere along the way, are you?"

Thompson blinked, then exploded.

He smacked Correa hard across the back of the head.

"Fuck! You got shit for brains?!"

"You're my own blood! Why the hell would I kill you?!"

Correa clutched his head, muttering, wounded. "That's how it always goes in The Godfather and all those Hollywood mob movies!"

"To hold onto their spot, they sink their own brothers to the bottom of the river to feed the fish. To dodge suspicion, they whack their own wife and kids—it's sick! I figured you were gonna off me to shut me up!"

Thompson swore straight in his face. "Bullshit!"

"Stop watching those brain-dead movies! Take the money and get the hell out! Now! Straight to the airport!"

Seeing how genuinely furious his cousin was, Correa finally felt the stone in his chest drop. He let out a long, relieved breath.

"You're in that big a hurry, cuz? I was hoping to swing by and say goodbye to my mom—"

Thompson's expression turned deadly serious. "No time!"

"Those Wall Street wolves Elizabeth runs with could roll in tomorrow morning with U.S. Marshals, freeze the accounts, and start slapping on cuffs. Go now, and you still make it out clean."

"The internet's everywhere these days. You can FaceTime me anytime once you land. Soon as you're settled, I'll arrange for your mom to fly out and be with you."

Correa didn't waste any more breath.

He sat silent for two seconds, then cranked the wheel hard. The Lincoln Navigator pulled a brutal U-turn at the intersection and tore off straight toward Las Vegas McCarran International Airport.

...

At that very same moment.

Nevada. On the VIP runway of a private airfield.

A Gulfstream G650, black from nose to tail, finished its taxi. With one last roar of its engines, it rolled to a smooth stop on the tarmac.

The hydraulic hatch lowered slowly.

The instant Nevada's dry desert air rolled into the cabin, a hand in a black leather glove was already rising.

A young man with a striking head of white hair, wrapped in a bespoke trench coat—Harry—stepped out of the hatch with elegant ease.

A light breeze drifted past.

Harry pressed a handkerchief embroidered with a custom monogram over his nose and mouth, brows knitting in disgust.

"Absolutely revolting."

His eyes swept over the distant desert and the industrial sprawl. "Even the air out here reeks of middle-class desperation and cheap commercial airlines."

Behind him came a lean, hard-muscled subordinate in a black tactical jacket. The man held out an encrypted iPad.

"Boss."

"We've confirmed contact with the woman. She agreed to a meet to hand over the 'item.'"

"But she's extremely cautious. She's demanding the handoff happen somewhere crowded—somewhere busy."

Harry's cold gaze dropped to the iPad screen. A photo of a woman filled it.

He studied it for a moment, and the corner of his mouth curved up into a cruel little smile.

"She really is pretty."

"Such a shame. A pretty face with a short expiration date."

The subordinate tucked the tablet away and pressed for orders. "So her conditions for the handoff...?"

Harry didn't turn around. His polished shoes clicked down the stairs.

"Do it exactly how she wants. Killing someone in a crowd—now that has a certain artistry to it."

...

Half an hour later. The international airport's departure terminal.

"Cuz, I really can't hold it anymore. I gotta hit the restroom."

Thompson glanced at his watch and snapped, "We're about to go through security. Do it once we're on the plane!"

Correa clenched his legs together, desperate. "No way—I'm so keyed up I've gotta go every five minutes. I can't wait!"

Thompson had run out of patience for this cousin who was more liability than asset. He waved him off, irritated. "Make it quick!"

Cradling his ruined hand, Correa broke into a jog toward the restroom.

Watching his cousin's retreating back, Thompson pulled in a deep breath, fished out his encrypted phone, and dialed the union boss, Sandis.

"Mr. Sandis. I did exactly what you said. The fall guy's about to board and fly out of the country, and I've moved every last transfer record under his name."

"I expect you to keep your end. Get the union involved."

On the other end came Sandis's deeply satisfied laughter.

"Hahahaha! Mr. Thompson, I knew you were a smart man—one who knows what loyalty really costs."

"Relax. This case? I'm on it."

...

Inside the restroom.

Correa finished up and stepped out, staring at his own haggard face in the mirror—along with the bandaged stump seeping blood. Bitterness and resentment were carved into every line of his expression.

Drying his hand under the blower, he ground his teeth and cursed Caesar.

"Fuck! Caesar, you son of a bitch!"

"If you hadn't come out of nowhere with that sneaky little entrapment sting, I'd still be sitting pretty, counting my cash—instead of running out of the country like some kicked dog!"

"You cut off my fingers, you played me! Caesar, you just wait! Once I hire myself a hitter down in South America, I'll show you exactly who you're dealing with!"

The more Correa ranted, the more worked up he got, foul curses spilling out of his mouth.

He never noticed the man out in the VIP corridor beyond the restroom.

The white-haired young man who had just stepped off the private jet—Harry, head bowed over his tablet—suddenly went still.

His snake-like eyes narrowed a fraction. Here, in this cheap little airport, he'd just heard a name that struck a nerve, one he knew all too well.

Harry tossed the tablet back into his subordinate's arms.

He turned and walked with elegant, unhurried steps straight up to the still-cursing Correa, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth that made your skin crawl.

"Excuse me."

Harry looked at Correa and asked, soft and quiet:

"Did you just say... you know Caesar?"