Chapter 11 - The Scent of Lavender-11
I listened to his threats without moving a single muscle in my face. I didn't flinch, I didn't blink, and my heart rate didn't elevate by a single beat.
Slowly, deliberately, I allowed a small, calm smile to stretch across my face—a smile that made the remaining color drain instantly from Bruce's scarred cheeks.
"They aren't coming for me, Bruce," I said softly into the phone receiver.
Bruce’s brow furrowed in deep, sudden confusion. "What are you talking about?"
"Before I executed the physical override on that junction box," I explained, my voice dropping into a harsh, freezing whisper that blurred the glass partition, "I didn't just route the transaction data to the FBI servers. I executed a secondary, permanent escrow diversion protocol. I returned the entire eighty-five million dollars directly to the syndicate's master operating accounts in Zurich."
Bruce stared at me, his mouth opening and closing silently like a landed fish.
"But I didn't just send back their capital, Bruce," I continued ruthlessly, my eyes burning into his shattered soul. "I attached a complete, un-redacted digital dossier of your personal banking records, your private audio diaries detailing how you planned to cut the Cypriot handlers out of their thirty-percent logistics fee, and the explicit proof that you were the one who brought the federal task force down on their island transit node to save your own skin."
Bruce’s face went entirely, paper-white translucent, his jaw trembling violently as the absolute, terrifying horror of his true situation unmasked itself inside his mind.
"The syndicate doesn't blame me for the bust, Bruce," I whispered softly. "The syndicate blames you. They know you got greedy. They know you tried to steal their pipeline. And they know exactly which federal facility you're being transferred to next week. Enjoy your thirty-five years, Bruce. You’re going to be spending them with very, very attentive roommates."
May you like
I hung up the plastic receiver, set it back on its cradle, and stood up from the stool.
Behind the glass, Bruce began screaming frantically, slamming his chained fists against the ballistic partition in a state of absolute, hysterical panic as two armed federal marshals grabbed his arms and dragged his thrashing body away into the dark corridors of the prison.
