I stepped out into the dry, cedar-scented air. The gravel crunched under my boots—a loud, rhythmic sound that announced my arrival to the house. The porch light flickered, a yellow eye blinking in the dark.
I walked through the front door.
The living room was exactly as I remembered it—leather armchairs, the smell of woodsmoke and old whiskey, and the portrait of my father over the mantle. But the people inside were strangers.
Two men stood by the window, their suits sharp and dark, their faces devoid of emotion. They were the “Private Lenders” from Macau—clean, efficient, and lethal. And in the center of the room, sitting in my father’s favorite chair, was Elena.
She looked radiant. She was wearing a new diamond necklace—no doubt a “down payment” on the insurance policy—and she was sipping a glass of wine as if she were hosting a Sunday brunch.
“You’re late, Nathan,” she said, not looking up. “The interest on David’s debt has just gone up another point. Did you bring her?”
“I brought something better, Mother,” I said, walking to the center of the room. I didn’t look at the men. I looked at the woman who had shared my DNA and then tried to sell it. “I brought the bill.”
I tossed my tablet onto the coffee table. It was a live feed of the Port of Houston. I watched the color drain from the men’s faces as they saw the federal “Seizure in Progress” banners flashing across the crates of Jade Maritime.
“Forty million dollars of your high-end microchips, gentlemen,” I said, my voice as cold as the limestone outside. “They’re currently being logged into a Homeland Security database. By morning, every shell company associated with your group will be under a Tier-1 international freeze. You’ll be lucky if you can buy a pack of gum in Macau by Friday.”
The men stepped forward, their hands moving toward their jackets, but I didn’t flinch.
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