Chapter 8 - Checkmate
Julian’s face twisted into an expression of sheer disbelief, quickly followed by a cold, desperate calculation. He raised his pistol, aiming it straight at my chest.
"Well, well, well," Julian sneered, though a bead of sweat trickled down his temple. "Looks like the ghost of San Diego decided to crawl out of his grave for an encore. Too bad ghosts don't stop bullets."
The four enforcers fanned out, raising their submachine guns, ready to turn me into Swiss cheese.
I didn't flinch. I didn't raise my hands. I simply pulled out the burner phone from my coat pocket and pressed a single button on the screen.
Suddenly, every television screen mounted on the walls of the penthouse flickered to life. Instead of financial news, they broadcasted crystal-clear, high-definition audio recordings and video feeds.
Voices echoed through the room: — "We sign off on the port transfer tomorrow, Julian. Just make sure Voss drinks the wine first." (Marcus's voice) — "Once he's gone, we split the offshore accounts fifty-fifty and pay off the federal D.A." (Julian's voice)
Julian's enforcers paused, glancing nervously at the screens playing their bosses' treasonous conspiracy in public view for the entire corporate network to hear.
"What is this?!" Julian yelled, his face turning purple with rage. "Turn that off!"
"It's already streaming live to every federal prosecutor, every cartel boss in Tijuana, and every news outlet from here to Seattle," I said calmly, keeping the gun pressed firmly against Marcus's forehead. "Your empire is crumbling down around you, Julian. Look out the window."
Julian threw a frantic glance toward the glass.
Below, in the street, a convoy of black armored SUVs had surrounded the building. Armed men wearing unmarked tactical gear—Viktor Petrov's Bratva enforcers—were pouring out of the vehicles, sealing off every exit and cutting the building off from the outside world. At the same time, the wail of approaching federal sirens echoed up from the avenue.
"You're finished," I told Julian. "You thought you killed the king, but all you did was wake him up."
Julian's enforcers lowered their weapons, looking at each other in sheer panic. The realization that they were holding the bag for a sinking ship set in instantly. One by one, they dropped their guns to the marble floor and raised their hands.
Julian raised his pistol in a blind, desperate fury, screaming as he aimed straight for my head—
Crack.
My shot was faster. The bullet struck Julian's gun hand, sending his weapon clattering across the floor. He shrieked, clutching his shattered wrist as he fell to his knees beside Marcus.
I walked over, stood above them both, and holstered my weapon.
May you like
"Take them away," I said into the room's intercom.
Viktor’s elite guards flooded the penthouse doors, dragging the screaming, broken forms of Julian Reyes and Marcus Kane out toward the elevators to face a very long, very painful reckoning.
