The tone of Mateo’s voice shifted the energy in the room instantly. It went from intellectual to kinetic.
I looked over at the window where Mateo had set up his station. It looked less like a workspace and more like a tactical command post. His monitor was a mess of open windows that showed flight paths, banking alerts, and satellite feeds.
"What do you have?" I asked.
"Liquidations," Mateo said. "Personal ones. Not company stock. He’s selling the art."
He tapped a screen.
"A piece from his private collection just went to private auction an hour ago. Undervalued. Quick sale. He dumped his property in the Cotswolds this morning for cash. He’s moving money into accounts in jurisdictions with weak extradition treaties."
"He's running," Juno realized, standing up. "He knows the freeze is coming for him personally. He’s trying to get out before Stephen locks the personal accounts."
"He’s trying," Mateo corrected.
He tracked a line on the map. A flight plan filed thirty minutes ago.
Tail Number: N7789X. Departure: Farnborough. Destination: Dubai.
"Private charter," Mateo noted. "Wheels up in two hours. Once he hits international airspace, he bounces to a non-extradition zone. He takes the cash, disappears, and waits for this to blow over."
Mateo picked up his phone. It was a burner, sleek and black.
"Not today," he growled.
He dialed. He didn't put it on speaker.
"It’s me," Mateo said into the phone. "Yeah. I’m calling in the favor. The flight out of Farnborough. N7789X. It has a maintenance issue."
A pause.
"Hydraulics," Mateo suggested. "Or maybe the landing gear is faulty. Ground it. Ideally until the regulatory freeze hits his passport."
He hung up. He dialed a second number.
"Davis. It’s Mateo. That liquidity transfer Vance is trying to push through the Caymans intermediary? Flag it for money laundering review. Just a 48-hour hold. That’s all I need."
He hung up. Dialed a third.
"Air Traffic Control favor," he muttered to us before speaking into the phone. "Yeah. I need a weather hold on the south corridor."
He sat back. He watched the screen.
Five minutes passed. The cabin was silent except for the clicking of Stephen’s keyboard and the rain.
Then, the blinking green light of the flight plan on Mateo’s screen turned red.
STATUS: DELAYED indefinitely. ADMINISTRATIVE HOLD.
Mateo set the phone down. He crossed his arms over his chest, his biceps straining the fabric of his black t-shirt. A dark, terrifyingly calm satisfaction settled over his features.
"Window closed," Mateo said. "He’s at the airfield right now, sitting in a jet that isn't going anywhere, watching his accounts freeze one by one."
"No violence," I noted, watching him.
"No violence," Mateo agreed. "Just a cage. He ran out of exits before he found one."
By evening, the rhythm in the cabin had shifted from frantic to the steady, rhythmic hum of all of us operating at peak efficiency.
