My business partner Maya ordered $4,850 worth of vintage cognac and Wagyu steaks at an exclusive Buckhead restaurant, fully expecting me to settle the syndicate front's tab like I always did.
Chopper Bennett stepped backward as the police officers led Maya toward the front exit. He didn’t offer any help, no words of comfort, only a detached observation of her downfall. He looked at me, a sharp, dangerous glitter in his eyes.
“You played a dangerous game tonight, Holloway,” Chopper said in his low rasp, his voice barely audible above the shuffling of the police. “Marcus DuBose might be running, but he’s still got men in Atlanta. And $300,000 doesn’t just disappear because a girl goes to jail.”
“Marcus doesn’t have your money, Chopper,” I said, looking him dead in the eye, holding his intense gaze. “Check the account transfer I sent your bookkeeper at 11:30 PM. I used Maya’s personal emergency indemnity bond to pay off your street loan in full. You’re whole. The DuBose family owes you nothing, and you owe them no favors.”
Chopper pulled out his encrypted phone pad, his fingers moving quickly. He typed in a code, scanned the screen. He paused, looking at the verified green transaction code that confirmed the payment. A slow, terrifying grin spread across his face, not one of amusement, but of brutal satisfaction.
“You’re smarter than you look, accountant,” Chopper said, stepping aside, clearing my path. “Get out of Atlanta before Marcus figures out where you hide your backup drives. And don’t ever mention my name again.”
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