Chapter 188: Every Crow Under Heaven Is Just as Black

Chapter 188: Every Crow Under Heaven Is Just as Black

The two of them climbed out of the car and started up the wide steps toward the union building's main entrance.

Correa walked at Thompson's side. Two fingers on his right hand had just been severed, and the thick wad of bloody bandages had him breaking out in a cold sweat, his steps dragging slower than he wanted.

Thompson shoved through the heavy revolving glass door and went in. Correa gritted his teeth and stayed close behind.

Before they could even reach the marble front desk—

A security guard in a black uniform, a bulge at his hip, stepped in front of them like a wall of iron.

He planted both hands on his hips, looking Thompson up and down from above, then let his eyes drift to Correa's bandaged hand. His voice came out flat and hard.

"What do you two want? This place isn't open to the public."

Thompson slapped on a smile in an instant. "Hey there, brother. We're here to see Supervisor Sandis. We're with the Williams Group—here to file a grievance over a wrongful termination."

The guard raised an eyebrow and waved them off, bored. "The supervisor's out. And you don't have an appointment. Come back another day."

The second Correa heard that, the temper that was already frayed raw from the pain in his hand snapped. He pushed a step forward.

"What kind of attitude is that?! We're here to seek protection from the union! I already called Supervisor Sandis's office before we came!"

The guard's eyes went cold in a heartbeat, his right hand dropping straight to the Taser on his belt.

"I don't care who you called." The guard stared Correa down. "Kid, take that busted hand of yours and get the hell out. This isn't the place to throw a tantrum."

Correa's face flickered between livid and white, and he opened his mouth to blow up.

Thompson's hand shot out in time, grabbed his cousin by the arm, and yanked him roughly back behind himself.

Then Thompson leaned in half a step toward the guard.

"Brother, he took a little injury—head's not screwed on right. Don't take it personal."

Thompson fished a couple of folded hundred-dollar bills, Benjamins, out of his suit pocket. He tucked them discreetly into his palm and offered his hand.

"Do me a favor. Get word up to Supervisor Sandis. Tell him Thompson's here, and there's big money on the table."

The guard glanced at Thompson, then reached out and shook his hand.

The bills changed hands without a ripple, sliding up into the guard's sleeve.

He felt the thickness of the wad, smacked his lips.

"You're a hell of a lot smarter than that cripple over there." The guard jerked his chin toward the couches along the wall. "Wait."

He lifted his radio and punched in an internal number. After a few low words, he set it down and tipped his head up.

"Head up. Thirtieth floor. Mr. Sandis just happens to have five minutes."

Thompson clapped the guard on the shoulder. "Much obliged, brother."

He turned, hauling the pale-faced Correa along toward the VIP elevator.

...

Thirtieth floor.

The moment the elevator doors slid open—

There was none of the grim office atmosphere he'd expected. What hit him instead was warm, lavish lighting, and the air thick with the mingled scent of Cuban cigars and expensive bourbon.

The deep-red Persian carpet was so soft underfoot it felt like walking on cotton. Priceless classical oil paintings hung along both walls of the corridor.

At the far end, the double doors of a private lounge stood cracked open.

Through the gap came the sharp click of billiard balls colliding, along with men's laughter and the occasional shout of approval.

Inside the lounge.

A balding, middle-aged man in a navy-blue bespoke suit was bent low over a custom Brunswick American pool table, an ebony cue inlaid with ivory gripped in his hand.

He shifted to the side, lined up, and struck.

Crack!

The cue ball caught the eight ball square on the side. The eight slid along a wickedly tight angle and dropped clean into the corner pocket.

Ran the table in one shot.

"Nice shot!"

A handful of union brass in pricey shirts and neckties shot to their feet at once, applauding.

The flattery poured out of them:

"Mr. Sandis, your game just keeps getting sharper!"

"I doubt the pros down in Vegas could've made that shot!"

Sandis straightened up, propped the cue against the table's edge, and took a hot towel from the pretty secretary beside him to wipe his hands.

"Just luck. Pure luck."

Modesty in his words—but the arrogance and self-satisfaction plastered across his face gave him away.

"Mr. Sandis, what do you say we head out to Palm Springs this weekend and hit the links?" The same brownnoser sidled up. "I just had a set of hand-built clubs shipped in from Scotland. Was hoping you could give me a few pointers."

Sandis took an iced whiskey from the secretary, raised it, took a sip, and gave a slight shake of his head.

"Golf's a little too sensitive right now."

He let out a cold chuckle. "The IRS and the FBI have been crawling all over the union's books lately. Go strut around some top-tier country club flashing a membership right now, and you're basically begging them to audit you. Just thinking about it gives me a headache."

The subordinate caught on instantly. "Mr. Sandis, always thinking three moves ahead. Extremely thorough. I've learned something today."

Another round of thunderous, hollow applause filled the lounge.

Just then—

A young female assistant in a tight professional skirt suit pushed the door open and stepped in.

She gave a slight bow and reported in a low voice. "Mr. Sandis, there's a Mr. Thompson downstairs. Says it's urgent."

"He says it's about the Williams Group maliciously terminating its management and breaching the union agreement."

Sandis's hand paused for a second around his glass.

He frowned slightly, running the name through his memory.

"Ah... right, there is such an ATM." Sandis set down his glass. "Send him up. Have him wait for me in the small conference room."

The assistant murmured an acknowledgment and had just turned to go—

Sandis picked up his cue and turned to the room, spirits high. "Come on. Rack 'em up."

...

Out in the corridor.

The assistant told Thompson, her face expressionless, "Mr. Sandis says to wait for him in Conference Room Two."

Correa, still cradling his ruined hand, moved to follow Thompson inside.

The assistant put out an arm and blocked him cold.

"Sorry. Mr. Sandis says he'll only see Mr. Thompson. Alone."

Thompson glanced back at Correa.

"Correa, you're too conspicuous looking like that. Head downstairs and wait for me in the car."

Sweat streaming down his face from the pain, Correa didn't dare argue. He just clenched his teeth and turned toward the elevator.

The conference room door slammed shut behind Thompson.

Five minutes.

Ten minutes.

A full hour crawled by.

It was the classic power play of a man on top—using meaningless waiting to grind down the other side's nerve.

At last, the conference room door swung open.

Sandis strolled in, unhurried. The instant he crossed the threshold, that flawless, politician's professional smile was fixed on his face.

"Mr. Thompson, my apologies."

Sandis extended his right hand. "I had some urgent paperwork to deal with from Washington. Sorry to keep you waiting."

Thompson shot up out of his chair, seizing the offered hand with an expression of pure servility.

"Not at all! I know Mr. Sandis's time is money. Just getting a moment of it—I'm grateful."

Thompson was about to cut to the chase.

But Sandis pulled his hand back and dragged out a chair, sitting. He laced his fingers together on the tabletop, and his gaze turned sharp, boring straight into Thompson.

"Mr. Thompson. I've already gotten the details on your situation through internal channels."

He switched to a cold, all-business expression.

"Skimming raw materials out of the plant, cooking the books on top of it—that's a serious violation of Nevada labor law and the relevant federal commercial statutes."

Sandis spread his hands, showing no mercy. "Elizabeth of the Williams Group is fully within her rights to fire you. She's even within her rights to bring in the FBI and pursue criminal charges. On this one, the union can't help you."

Thompson stood frozen for two seconds. The servility drained bit by bit from his face, and his eyes went dark.

He braced both hands on the table, dropped his voice low, like a viper backed into a corner.

"Mr. Sandis. Back when I was washing the profits from those raw materials through offshore accounts, one wire at a time, and dressing them up as 'union sponsorship fees'—you sure as hell weren't talking like this."

"Now I'm in trouble, and you want to dust off your hands and leave me hanging?"

He glared, venom in his eyes. "If I go to federal prison, nobody walks out of this clean."

Sandis's body stilled for the briefest moment.

Then he leaned back slowly into his chair, his eyes turning dangerous, his tone slicing like a blade. "Are you threatening me?"

Since he'd already torn off the mask, Thompson dropped the groveling act entirely.

"No—how would I ever dare threaten a union boss?"

He gave a cold smile. "I just want to make sure nobody's planning to throw me under the bus as a bit of padding. Think of it as a friendly reminder."

Thompson paused, his voice light as air but carrying a killing edge.

"I've got more than just the high-def dashcam footage of every deal we ever cut. I've got the complete transaction history for that encrypted wallet of yours down in the Cayman Islands."

Dead silence filled the conference room. Not a sound.

Sandis said nothing. His finger, weighed down by a Patek Philippe, tapped softly on the mahogany. Tap. Tap. Tap.

A long moment passed.

Sandis didn't lose his temper. Instead, he shed the all-business hardness from before, and a cold, sinister smile curled the corner of his mouth.

"Kid. You've got balls."

Thompson lifted his chin a fraction, giving no ground. "Takes one to know one."

Sandis's finger resumed its tapping on the table.

"I can bring the union's muscle down for you. I can put every logistics truck in the state of Nevada on strike, force this Elizabeth woman to drop the charges against you—hell, force her to pay you an obscene settlement for breach of contract."

"But—" Sandis's eyes went cold as a snake's. "Before any of that, you clean up your own mess. I will not have the union stick its neck out for a fool walking around with an ironclad case against him."

Thompson's eyes narrowed. "What are you getting at? The evidence is in Elizabeth's hands."

Sandis let out a low laugh and leaned forward.

"That evidence points at you. But what if... you were the one being deceived?"

His voice dropped, low and coaxing. "That cousin who came in with you—the one with the severed fingers... wouldn't he make the most perfect fall guy of all?"