Then he bolts.
Bad choice.
He makes it half a block.
I catch him easily and slam him into the brick wall beside the alley.
His breath explodes out of him.
I take his phone before he can scream.
“Who paid you?” I ask calmly.
He laughs.
Too fast.
Too loud.
“You did.”
I hit him.
Once.
Hard enough to make the truth more interesting than the lie.
“Wrong answer.”
His eyes fill with tears.
“A woman,” he blurts. “An older woman. Private banking. Offshore account.”
My chest goes cold.
“Name.”
“I don’t know,” he gasps. “She used a broker.”
He wipes blood from his mouth.
“But the money came from New York.”
New York.
My mother has a house in New York.
Three, actually.
I let him slide down the wall.
Then I call my security chief.
“Freeze every account tied to her U.S. holdings.”
A pause.
“Sir?”
