"Togda ukhodite."Then get out.
They leave. All except the hacker.
He closes his laptop slowly. Waits until the door shuts. Then looks at me.
"Your Russian's gotten better," he says in English. American accent, but he understands every word spoken in this room. I've tested that.
"Immersion works," I say. "You have the information I asked for?"
He slides a USB drive across the table. "Klaus's medical records. Treatment schedules. Doctor contacts. The experimental drug keeping him alive." He pauses. "Also found the supplier. Swiss pharmaceutical company. Very exclusive. Very expensive."
I pocket the drive. "How hard would it be to cut off his supply?"
"Depends. You want it to look like an accident or do you want him to know?"
I meet his eyes. "I want options."
He nods. "I'll work on it."
"Why are you helping me?" I ask. Testing. Always testing. "You've been in this organization longer than I have. You're loyal to Klaus."
He laughs—short, bitter. "I'm loyal to survival. Klaus is dying. Everyone knows it, even if his miracle treatment bought him a few more months. When he goes, there'll be a power vacuum. I'd rather work for someone who doesn't kill people for sport."
"And you think I don't?"
"I think you do it because you have to. Not because you like it." He stands. "That's the difference. Klaus enjoys it. You calculate it. One's a monster. The other's just dangerous."
He heads for the door, pauses. "The money flows you asked about last week—I sent them to your encrypted email. Offshore accounts. Shell companies. The whole web. You'll see who's skimming and who's clean."
"And if Klaus asks what you're working on?"
"I tell him I'm tracking Albanian activity. Which I am. He doesn't need to know I'm also tracking his own people." A pause. "For you."
I nod. "Good. Keep it that way."
He leaves.
I stay at the table, staring at the USB drive in my palm. Klaus's lifeline. His weakness. Delivered to me by someone inside his own organization.
The network is building. Slowly. Carefully. But it's building.
• • •
Afternoon: a "collection" in Brooklyn. Debtor who thought he could short us on a protection payment. Big guy—muscles, tattoos, the kind who thinks size means something.
He starts with excuses. "Look, I just need more time—"
I don't let him finish.
Grab his throat with one hand. Slam him against the wall hard enough to crack plaster. He swings—wild, sloppy, telegraphed. I see it coming a mile away. Duck. Elbow to his gut with surgical precision. He doubles over, wheezing.
Knee to his face—crack of cartilage, blood spraying across the floor. He staggers. Swings again, desperate now. I catch his arm. Twist. Feel the shoulder pop out of socket like a champagne cork.
He screams.
I don't stop. Fist to his jaw—once, twice, three times. Methodical. Efficient. Teeth crack. Blood flows. He drops to his knees.
The lieutenants watch. No one intervenes. This is a test. It's always a test. But I'm not the one being tested anymore.
