Chapter 8 - Behind the Ballistic Glass Partition-8
The visitor’s room at the federal detention center was a windowless concrete bunker divided by a thick, seamless pane of reinforced ballistic glass. The air was freezing, smelling of stale floor wax, industrial disinfectant, and the hollow, heavy atmosphere of a tomb.
Avery sat down on the cold metal stool, placing her hands flat on the stainless-steel counter, her posture straight and unyielding. A second later, the heavy iron door on the opposite side opened, and two armed federal marshals escorted Brent Harlan into the room.
He sat down heavily on the stool, lifting his chained hands with an immense effort to pick up the plastic intercom phone. Avery picked up her receiver, holding it to her ear in total silence.
"You look beautiful, Avery," Brent whispered through the line, his voice a raspy, broken shadow of its former self, his throat damaged by the smoke inhalation from the transit bay fire. "I see the civilian clothes suit you just as well as they did when you were pouring coffee at my mother's table. I suppose I should thank you for leaving my sister—sorry, my mother her nominal trust shares. It was a remarkably generous act for a woman who called her marriage an empty ledger."
"I didn't do it for you, Brent," Avery said, her voice completely flat, devoid of any anger or hatred. "I did it for the law. You're going to prison for thirty-five years, Brent. The company is gone. Your money is gone. Sloane Mercer is currently cooperating with the feds to secure a reduced sentence in a maximum-security women's facility, and her mother's lifestyle has been completely bankrupted by the federal asset seizures."
Brent let out a sharp, bitter bark of laughter that degenerated into a ragged coughing fit, his chained hands shaking against the steel counter. "You think you won, Avery? You think this little courtroom victory makes you safe? You think you can just take your investment dividends and go back to your quiet little life as a senior acquisitions director with your children?"
He leaned close to the glass, his eyes flashing with a sudden, malicious intensity that reminded me—sorry, Avery—of the night he stood in the dining room pylon.
"The Nicosia pipeline... you only pulled the top layer of the ledger, Brent. The real owners of that syndicate... the international cartel behind those Cypriot holding firms... they don't care about federal court verdicts. They care about their capital. Eighty-five million dollars of their money is currently frozen in the Vanguard receivership account because of your fire ax sting."
May you like
He tapped his chained fingers against the glass partition.
"They know your name now, Avery Monroe. They know where you live, where you work, and every single digital footprint you leave behind. You might have locked me in this cage, darling, but you've locked yourself in a prison of fear for the rest of your days. Every time a car slows down outside your house... you’ll know they're coming to collect the debt."
