Chapter 19 - The Scorched Earth Protocol
The final act didn't take place in a ballroom or on a boat.
It took place in the server room of the Greenwich estate,
the same place where I had once scrubbed the floors.
Victor stood behind me,
his hand on my shoulder,
as I prepared to enter the final sequence.
"If you do this,
Claire,"
he said,
"the money is gone."
"The terminals,
the real estate,
the offshore accounts—"
"it all vanishes into the charity trusts you’ve set up."
"We’ll be left with nothing."
"No,"
I said,
my fingers hovering over the 'enter' key.
"We’ll be left with the house."
"We’ll be left with the name."
"And we’ll be left with Emily."
"The Syndicate only exists because it has fuel."
"I’m cutting the fuel line."
I looked at him,
seeing the man who had been a titan,
now reduced to a father.
"Are you ready to be a regular man,
Victor?"
He smiled,
a genuine,
weary smile.
"I’ve spent forty-eight years being a Russo."
"I think I’d like to try being a father for a while."
I pressed the key.
On the screens around us,
the red lines of the Meridian network began to blink and fade.
Millions of dollars shifted,
erased by the very code that had created them.
The algorithm fought back,
flashing warnings,
trying to lock us out,
but I had been an auditor for the DOJ for too long.
I knew the backdoors of greed.
Within an hour,
the Syndicate was a ghost.
The 'Project Crooked Label' was deleted.
The Meridian Syndicate was officially bankrupt.
And in the distance,
across the harbor,
the sirens of the federal authorities began to wail.
They were coming for the money,
but there was nothing left to seize.
We walked out onto the lawn,
where Emily was playing with a golden retriever puppy we had bought for her.
The sun was setting,
casting long,
golden shadows across the grass.
"Is it done?"
Emily asked,
running up to us.
"It’s done,
baby,"
I said,
picking her up.
"No more games."
"No more medicine."
"No more crooked labels."
Suddenly,
a black sedan pulled into the driveway.
Agent Miller stepped out,
but he didn't have a warrant.
He had a look of utter defeat.
"It’s gone,"
he said,
walking up to us.
"The whole Russo portfolio."
"Where did it go,
Claire?"
"To the people,
Miller,"
I said,
smiling.
"To the victims of the shipping monopolies."
"To the clinics in the Bronx."
"To the schools in Newark."
"We’re broke."
"So,
May you like
unless you’re here to help us with the gardening,"
"you’re trespassing."
