Chapter 7 - The Ledger
When I reached the fortieth floor of Northbridge at nine-thirty, the air felt charged with static.
Clara wasn't at her desk. Two armed men in gray suits I hadn't seen before stood flanking the elevator doors. When they saw me, they didn't ask for credentials; they simply stepped aside and opened the doors to Jack’s private office.
Jack was standing behind his desk.
He wore a dark blue suit today, immaculate as always, but his face was carved from granite. His jaw was clenched so tightly that a muscle jumped beneath his cheek.
Marco was in the corner, cleaning dirt from under his fingernails with a four-inch folding knife.
As soon as the heavy mahogany doors clicked shut behind me, Jack spoke.
“You’re late,” he said.
“Traffic on Storrow Drive,” I lied smoothly, walking toward his desk.
“Really?” Jack picked up a tablet from his blotter, swiped the screen, and turned it toward me.
On the screen was a live traffic camera feed from Government Center. Highlighted in a red digital circle was me, walking down the concrete steps of the John F. Kennedy Federal Building forty minutes ago.
My breath caught in my throat.
Marco stopped cleaning his nails. The knife snapped shut with a sharp, metallic *clack*.
“Jack,” I began.
“I told you two rules, Emily,” Jack said, his voice terrifyingly calm, devoid of any anger—which made it a thousand times worse. “Rule number one was the only one that mattered.”
Marco took two slow steps toward me from the corner of the room. The casual, bored posture was gone. He looked like an executioner waiting for a nod.
“Did you take it?” Jack asked quietly.
I looked directly into his slate-gray eyes. I felt the small, heavy weight in my right coat pocket. Every instinct honed over twenty-six years of survival screamed at me to run, to apologize, to plead for my life.
Instead, I reached into my coat pocket.
Marco’s hand went immediately inside his jacket, his fingers wrapping around the grip of his pistol.
I didn't flinch. I pulled the small black digital transmitter from my pocket, stepped up to Jack’s desk, and slammed it down onto the polished mahogany right between us.
The device rattled against the wood and rolled to a stop against Jack’s fountain pen.
Jack’s eyes flickered down to the bug, then back up to my face.
“Special Agent Thomas Miller,” I said, my voice ringing clear and steady in the silent room. “Organized Crime Task Force. He intercepted me at the gala last night through a waiter. He told me I was facing ten to fifteen years for conspiracy after the *Northern Star* cover-up. He told me if I didn't plant that on your desk by five o'clock, he’d have an arrest warrant signed by a federal judge.”
Marco swore under his breath and lunged forward to grab the bug, but Jack held up a single hand.
Marco froze instantly.
Jack stared at the transmitter. Then he leaned down, picked it up between his thumb and forefinger, and rolled it back and forth, examining the microscopic microphone port.
“And why didn't you plant it?” Jack asked, his gaze fixed on the plastic disc. “He offered you immunity. He offered you money. You could have walked away clean, Emily. You don't owe me anything. You’ve worked here for less than twenty-four hours.”
“Because Miller doesn't have a case,” I said.
Jack looked up, his brow furrowing slightly. “What?”
“If Miller had a case that could hold up in court, he wouldn't need a twenty-six-year-old marketing coordinator to do his dirty work,” I said, stepping closer until my hands rested on the edge of Jack’s desk. “He’s bluffing. The *Northern Star* was his best shot, and our press conference ruined it. He’s desperate. He’s trying to build a case out of panic because his bosses are breathing down his neck.”
I took a deep breath.
“And besides,” I added, my voice dropping, “I don't like being threatened. By federal agents or by you.”
Jack stared at me. The silence stretched between us, thick and dangerous, until the tension in the room felt ready to snap like a bowstring.
Then, slowly, Jack placed the bug back on the desk, picked up a heavy crystal paperweight, and brought it down with savage, crushing force.
*CRACK.*
The transmitter shattered into dozens of tiny plastic and copper shards.
Marco let out a long breath and slowly let his hand drop from his holster.
Jack set the paperweight down. His face was unreadable, but when he looked at me, the coldness that had filled his eyes when I walked through the door had completely vanished.
“Marco,” Jack said without turning around.
“Yeah, Jack?”
“Clear the floor. Nobody comes up without my direct authorization. If Clara so much as answers a telephone, tell her she’s fired.”
“Got it,” Marco said. He looked at me, gave a slow, respectful nod that felt like an apology, and slipped out the double doors, pulling them shut behind him.
We were alone.
Jack walked around the desk until he was standing directly in front of me. He reached out, his hand wrapping gently around the back of my neck, his thumb resting against the racing pulse at my throat.
“You’re either the bravest woman I’ve ever met,” he whispered, his face inches from mine, “or you’re completely out of your mind.”
“Maybe both,” I breathed, unable to tear my gaze away from his.
“Miller was right about one thing,” Jack said, his thumb brushing against my skin, sending a shiver down my spine. “There *is* a ledger. Terminal 4 isn't shipping textiles. It’s shipping the final liquidations of my father’s old operations. In three weeks, Northbridge was supposed to be completely legitimate. Completely clean.”
“And now?”
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“And now Dominic Moretti and Thomas Miller are working together,” Jack said, his eyes darkening with fury. “Miller isn't hunting organized crime, Emily. He’s clearing the harbor so Moretti can take it over.”
***
