Chapter 24 - Unmasking the Financier
I froze, the icy rain running down my neck where the cold steel of the muzzle dug into my flesh. Through the torrential downpour, the outline of a burly man dressed in black tactical waterproofs came into peripheral view. He smelled of cheap cigars and gun oil.
"Elias Kane," I said, keeping my voice eerily calm, refusing to flinch.
"Smart lady," Kane grunted, his thumb clicking the safety off with a terrifying metallic click. "Drop the pistol in your coat pocket. Slow. Two fingers."
I complied, letting the heavy handgun clatter onto the wet asphalt.
"Julian promised you thirty million for this job, didn't he?" I asked, looking straight ahead at the rusted surface of Locker 94.
"Thirty-five," Kane corrected, sneering against the wind. "Plus a clean exit out to international waters on a luxury yacht."
I let out a short, humorless laugh that cut through the sound of the rain. "Then you really are a fool, Kane. You took a contract from a man who hasn't possessed thirty-five dollars of his own money in five years. Every suit he wears, every bottle of scotch he drinks, every lie he tells is funded by Vance Holdings. And as of ten minutes ago, Vance Holdings has frozen every single account associated with Julian's offshore identity."
Kane's grip on the rifle tightened, but I felt a microscopic hesitation in the pressure against my neck.
"He showed me the bank routing numbers, lady. I watched the initial wire initiate," Kane growled.
"He showed you an escrow illusion," I countered, pulling out my smartphone with deliberate slowness and turning the screen toward him. "Look at the terminal feed. That's the Swiss National Clearing House. The second Julian enters his authorization code without my live biometric verification, the funds are flagged as terrorist financing under international maritime law. Interpol gets a priority alert. The Coast Guard is scrambled. And your boat won't make it three miles past the harbor before an MH-60 Jayhawk puts a missile through your hull."
Kane's eyes darted to the flashing red code on the screen. The mercenary's jaw clenched. Men like Kane don't possess loyalty; they possess self-preservation.
Suddenly, a woman's voice crackled through Kane's radio.
"Kane! Why are you talking to her? Kill the bitch and get the token!"
The voice was unmistakably feminine, high-pitched, and shrill with frantic entitlement. It wasn't Julian.
It was Victoria Sterling—Julian's wealthy socialite mistress, the woman he had spent five days with while Noah fought for breath in the hospital incubator.
"Victoria," I whispered, the puzzle pieces slamming into place with devastating clarity. "Julian didn't organize this alone. It was her family's trust fund that paid the retainer to Kane."
"Kane, do you copy?!" Victoria's voice shrieked through the radio. "Shoot her! Julian is bringing the child down to the deck now! We are leaving!"
May you like
Kane lowered his weapon by half an inch, his eyes narrowing at me in the shadows. "Looks like your husband's new girlfriend just signed your death warrant, Mrs. Vance."
***
