The one by the door is muscle—young, nervous, keeps checking his phone. Probably low-level, likely expendable. The one leaning against the filing cabinet is older, calmer, with the flat eyes of someone who’s done this before. He’s the one to watch.
The third is the problem. He arrived twenty minutes ago, and the other two snapped to attention like soldiers at inspection. Mid-fifties, silver hair, expensive suit that’s out of place in this shithole. He hasn’t introduced himself, but I know exactly who he is.
Vincent Caruso.
The FBI’s most wanted. The man Stone and I have been building a case against for weeks. And now I’m zip-tied to a chair in his makeshift office, trying not to let my hands shake.
Think, Josie. You’re a lawyer. Your weapon is words. Use them.
“You know this is pointless,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “Whatever you think I know, the FBI already has copies of everything.”
Caruso doesn’t look up from his phone. “Ms. Bright. I’ve been in this business for thirty years. Do you really think I’d go to the trouble of acquiring you if I didn’t already know exactly what you have?”
“Then why am I here?”
Now he looks at me. His eyes are flat, reptilian. The eyes of a man who’s ordered deaths the way most people order coffee.
“You’re here because you’re leverage.” He sets down the phone. “Your biker friends have been a thorn in my side for months. They’ve cost me money, product, and now—thanks to your little evidence package—several key business relationships.”
“Sounds like a you problem.”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “It was until now. In approximately—” he checks his watch “—four hours, my associates in the FBI will ensure that raid never happens. The evidence will be lost. The case will collapse. And you, Ms. Bright, will help me understand exactly who else might have copies.”
“I’m not telling you shit.”
“Everyone says that.” He stands, smoothing his jacket. “Ivan will be here soon to begin the questioning. I’m told he’s quite... persuasive.”
My blood goes cold, but I keep my expression neutral. “Ivan. I heard he’s your new attack dog after Carlos disappeared. Didn’t that happen after he kidnapped Emma Armstrong? Strange that.”
Caruso’s jaw ticks, his eyes narrowing.
“You’ve done your homework.”
“I’m thorough.” I lean forward, ignoring the way my zip ties dig into my wrists. “Here’s what else I know, Mr. Caruso. I know you’ve been laundering money through Summit Properties for three years. I know you’ve got at least two federal agents on your payroll—An agent in the Albany field office and someone higher up whose name I haven’t confirmed yet. I know about the shipments coming through the port in Jersey, and I know about the warehouse in Scranton where you process the product before distribution.”
I’m bluffing on half of this—educated guesses based on patterns in the evidence—but the way his jaw tightens tells me I’m hitting close to home.
“I also know,” I continue, “that the FBI agent running this operation isn’t one of yours. Alex Pilkin is a straight arrow. Always has been. Which means your four-hour timeline is optimistic at best.”
“You’re trying to rattle me.”
“I’m trying to help you see reality.” I hold his gaze. “The club knows where I am by now. They’re not going to wait for theFBI. Stone will come for me, and when he does, he won’t be interested in arrests or due process. He’ll be interested in blood.”
“Your biker boyfriend doesn’t scare me.”
“He should.” I smile, and it’s not a nice smile. “You’ve never seen what an MC president does when someone takes his woman. But you’re about to find out.”
Caruso stares at me for a long moment. Then he laughs—a cold, humorless sound.
“I see why he likes you. You’ve got fire.” He moves toward the door. “Enjoy it while it lasts. Ivan will be here within the hour, and I promise you, Ms. Bright—he’s very good at putting out fires.”
The door closes behind him.
I let out a breath, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Okay. Think. What do you know?
Four hours until his FBI contacts intervene. That’s the timeline. If the raid happens before then, Caruso loses. If it doesn’t, he wins and I’m either dead or wishing I was.
