Chapter 8 - The Confrontation with Sloan
Patrick Sloan sat behind an oversized mahogany desk salvaged from some corporate boardroom,
pouring himself a glass of expensive Kentucky bourbon.
He didn't look like a terrified criminal on the run.
He looked like a man who believed he owned the city,
his tailored silver suit unblemished by the chaos outside.
When the door flew open,
he didn't even flinch.
He simply took a slow sip of his bourbon,
set the glass down,
and raised his pale,
reptilian eyes toward us.
“Adrian Vale,
” Sloan drawled,
a thin,
mocking smile twisting his lips.
“And here I thought you were bleeding out on the ballroom floor of the Alden House.
”
“Your sniper needs a recalibration,
Patrick,
” I said,
walking slowly into the office with my MP5 leveled at his chest.
“He missed by at least two inches.
”
“A warning shot,
” Sloan corrected smoothly,
leaning back in his leather chair.
“A reminder that Manhattan belongs to whoever has the stomach to hold it.
”
“And you thought Mason could deliver it to you on a silver platter while stealing four point seven million from my offshore accounts as a parting gift?”
Sloan’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second,
his eyes flickering toward Clara standing just behind my shoulder.
“Ah,
” Sloan muttered,
his voice dropping an octave.
“The accountant.
”
“I told Mason she was a liability.
”
“You called me a plus-size forensic accountant who only knew how to look at numbers,
” Clara said,
stepping forward into the light,
her voice as cold as glacial ice.
“Turns out numbers are the only things keeping your entire cartel from federal indictment.
”
She tossed her silver thumb drive onto his mahogany desk.
It slid across the polished wood and came to rest right beside his glass of bourbon.
“Every shell company,
every offshore routing,
every bribe paid to the Southern District judges,
” Clara continued.
“It’s all uploaded to five different federal servers and three international news agencies.
”
“If either of us stops breathing tonight,
an automated dead-man’s switch releases the encryption keys to the entire world.
”
Sloan stared at the thumb drive as if it were a ticking bomb.
The cold,
aristocratic composure finally shattered,
replaced by a mask of rabid fury.
“You think you can ruin six years of work with a flash drive?” Sloan roared,
slamming his hands onto the desk and lunging for a customized gold-plated Colt Commander resting in a drawer.
Before his fingers could wrap around the grip,
my MP5 barked twice.
The bullets struck the desk inches from his hands,
showering him in splinters and pulverized mahogany.
Sloan froze,
his hands hovering over the empty drawer as the deafening echoes of gunfire faded into the ambient hum of the warehouse.
“Reach for that gun again,
Patrick,
” I whispered,
stepping closer until the muzzle of my weapon was an inch from his nose.
“And I won't aim for the desk.
”
Sloan slowly withdrew his hands,
his breath coming in shallow,
ragged gasps as sweat poured down his temples.
“What do you want?” he choked out.
“Everything,
” I replied coldly.
“Your docks,
your routes,
your network,
May you like
and your resignation.
”
