Soria’s words hung in the stale air of the brewery basement. “He’s all yours.”
It was a chilling endorsement, a street-level blessing to deliver my own brand of justice. I felt a surge of cold resolve, mixed with a deep, unsettling awareness of the path I’d chosen.
Ruiz, now suddenly respectful, led me back to my car. The two hours were up, but my life had been spared. Marcus’s wasn’t.
“Marcus Delancy is in the sub-basement of the high-rise,” Ruiz informed me, his voice flat. “Packing his escape bag. Soria pulled his guards an hour ago.”
He handed me a small, heavy object wrapped in cloth. It was a single-shot flare gun.
“For signaling,” Ruiz said, his eyes devoid of emotion. “When you’re done.”
I slipped the flare gun into my pocket, the cold weight of it a stark reminder of the world I was now operating in.
“Just so we’re clear,” I told Ruiz, “I’m going in alone. No weapons. Just a conversation.”
He nodded. “Whatever you want, Mr. Coyle. Just make sure the job gets done.”
I drove back to the high-rise, the fortified building now eerily quiet. The archway that once held two armed guards was empty.
The main lobby was deserted. I walked past the concierge desk, where no one sat. The opulent decor felt hollow, a facade.
I found the service elevator to the basement. It rumbled downwards, slowly descending into the earth.
The basement was a labyrinth of concrete corridors, humming pipes, and flickering fluorescent lights. The air grew damp, thick with the smell of mildew and dust.
I followed the distant sound of clattering. Marcus.
He was in an isolated maintenance room, tucked away behind a boiler. The door was ajar.
I stepped into the doorway. Marcus was inside, frantically stuffing bundles of cash and a small hard drive into a backpack. His face was contorted with panic.
“Arthur?” he gasped, spinning around. His eyes widened, a flicker of fear replacing his usual arrogance. “What are you doing here? Where are Soria’s men?”
He pulled a small, silver pistol from his belt, his hand shaking.
I stood there, empty-handed, just a paper folder in my grasp. It held the final audit report, the definitive proof of his deceit. And a printout of the wiped crypto transaction keys.
“They’re not here, Marcus,” I said, my voice calm, almost detached. “They won’t be coming for you anymore.”
He raised the gun, his knuckles white. The dim light glinted off the barrel.
This was it. The final reckoning.
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