~CHARLES~
Tick Tock... tick tock...
That was the only sound in my quiet office, the grandfather clock sitting in a corner. The ticks feeling like a countdown.
I swirled the amber liquid in my glass, staring at the silent phone on my mahogany desk. It was 8:45 PM.
Henry should have called by now.
I thought back to our conversation three hours ago. Henry had been practically giddy with excitement.
"Our plan seems to be taking shape on its own, Charles," he had gloated over the phone. "Layla called me, crying. She wants to hand over emergency powers. She wants to leave for Switzerland with her husband."
I had told him to be careful. "Layla O’Brien doesn’t fold, Henry. She fights. What if it’s a trap?"
"You worry too much," Henry had scoffed in arrogance. "She’s a terrified woman with a husband in a coma and a cartel breathing down her neck. We have nothing on her, and she has nothing on us. I’m going to the tower to sign the papers. This is it, Charles. We’ve won."
"Just be careful," I had warned. "Don’t underestimate her."
"Relax," Henry had said dismissively. "I’ll call you when it’s done. Maybe thirty minutes. An hour tops."
That was three hours ago.
I took a sip of the scotch; it tasted smooth and expensive, but it didn’t calm the knot of worry in my stomach. Something was off.
Henry was a useful tool, but he was a blunt instrument. He lacked vision, subtlety and the ability to see the knife coming until it was buried in his ribs.
If Layla was surrendering, why was it taking so long? Why hadn’t Henry called?
The phone on my desk suddenly buzzed, vibrating against the polished wood. I set my glass down quickly, picking it up without looking at the caller ID.
"Is it done?" I asked, skipping the pleasantries, expecting Henry’s gloating voice.
"Mr. Watson?"
But it wasn’t Henry.
It was a rough, breathless voice I recognised immediately. Sergeant Miller, a vice cop on my payroll for the last five years... a useful insurance policy.
"Miller," my voice dropped an octave. "Why are you calling me on this line? I told you to only use the burner."
"There’s no time for protocol," Miller whispered in panic. "You need to get out. Right now. I just walked past the Captain’s desk. The FBI just got a warrant signed by a federal judge. Electronic wire fraud, money laundering, grand larceny, conspiracy. They’re mobilising a TAC team to your estate. They’re ten minutes out, maybe less."
My blood ran cold, but my face remained impassive. Years of negotiating billion-dollar deals had taught me to never show fear.
"Ten minutes," I repeated calmly. "How did they move this fast?"
"I don’t know," Miller said. "But it’s bad, real bad. I heard your name come up three times in the briefing, and they seem to have evidence."
I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t ask about Henry. I didn’t need to. If the FBI had a warrant this fast, it meant Henry hadn’t just failed; he had cracked like an egg. He had sung like a canary.
And if Henry talked to the Feds, he likely talked to Marco Sinaloa too.
Which meant I had less time than I thought.
"Understood," I said calmly, my mind already three steps ahead. "Lose this number. Delete our entire conversation history. And Miller? I was never your client."
"Already done," Miller said. "Good luck, sir. You’re going to need it."
I hung up and smashed the phone against the corner of my desk. The screen shattered, spiderwebbing into black glass. I dropped the broken pieces into the fireplace.
I didn’t run. I didn’t panic. Panic is for amateurs.
I walked to the painting of the clipper ship on the far wall, a gift from a Chinese businessman I’d helped dodge SEC investigations, and swung it aside. Behind it was a wall safe, custom-installed and known to no one but me.
I spun the dial, and the heavy steel door clicked open with a satisfying sound.
Inside was a satchel containing three passports from three different countries, none of them bearing the name Charles Watson.
There was also a hard drive containing the encrypted keys to the offshore accounts holding the twenty million dollars Henry and I had skimmed, along with another forty million I had been siphoning off from my own companies for years.
Sixty million dollars. Enough to live like a king anywhere that didn’t have an extradition treaty with the United States.
I checked the drawers of my desk one last time. My laptop sat there, and it contained emails, flight logs, meeting notes, and the original correspondence with Henry detailing our entire scheme.
I couldn’t take it. It was GPS-enabled. It tracked location. It would lead them right to me.
I picked up the laptop and threw it into the fireplace, watching as it went up in flames. The plastic casing began to bubble and melt, the screen turning black and releasing toxic smoke.
"Goodbye, Henry," I muttered to the flames. "I told you she was dangerous. I told you not to underestimate her."
But had Henry listened? Of course not. Men like Henry never listen. They think they’re invincible right up until the moment they’re not.
I checked my watch. Eight minutes, maybe less if they were driving fast.
I walked out the French doors at the back of the study, stepping into the cool night air. The smell of pine and earth filled my lungs. I bypassed the garage entirely. My Bentley, the Aston Martin, the vintage Jaguar—they were all tracked through GPS, insurance chips, satellite radio. They were beautiful traps.
I stepped out of the study’s back French doors, taking a deep breath of the cool night air. I completely ignored the garage containing my luxury cars: the Bentley, the Aston Martin, the old Jaguar... they were all too risky.
Every single one had GPS, insurance chips, and satellite radio, making them beautiful, rolling security traps.
I walked briskly into the dense woods bordering the rear of my estate. A quarter-mile in, hidden beneath a camouflage tarp and a pile of brush, was a beat-up Ford F-150 registered to a landscaping company that had gone bankrupt and ceased to exist five years ago.
I had bought this truck with cash and hidden it here for exactly this scenario. Always have an exit strategy. That was rule number one.
I pulled the tarp off, climbed in and started the enginne.
Entering the old service road that led away from the main highway, I saw them in my rearview mirror. Flashing blue and red lights filled the darkness as they surrounded the front gate.
But I was not there.
"Enjoy the victory, Layla," I whispered to the empty road ahead. "Enjoy it while it lasts. But don’t get comfortable."