"Club's counting on you," Ghost reminds me unnecessarily. "Federal case against Hargrove goes to grand jury next week. Whatever Griffin knows could make the difference."
The timing creates urgency beyond club interests. Cara and Miranda are scheduled to testify, their safety dependent on our ability to neutralize threats. The safe house project breaks ground in ten days. Everything converges around this moment, this interrogation, this potential intelligence breakthrough.
"I know what's at stake," I tell him, checking my watch. Four-thirty AM. Dawn still hours away. "Let's get started."
Ghost nods and exits to retrieve our guest. I settle into the mental state required for interrogation—calm, focused, utterly present. The exhaustion of recent weeks fades to background noise, adrenaline providing temporary clarity. Sleep can come later, after we get what we need.
The door opens again, and two prospects guide Griffin into the room. His hands are cuffed before him, ankles shackled with just enough chain to allow shuffling steps. Despite these restraints and three days in captivity, he maintains the arrogant bearing of a man accustomed to authority. His Reapers cut has been confiscated, leaving him in a plain white t-shirt that reveals muscled arms covered in tattoos—including the distinctive Reapers insignia on his right forearm.
"Mason Griffin," I acknowledge as the prospects secure him to the chair. "Been a while."
He meets my gaze without flinching, recognition evident. "Falcon Reed. Still playing soldier for the Saints, I see."
The prospects exit silently, leaving us alone in the stark room. For several moments, we assess each other like fighters before a match, gauging strengths and weaknesses, searching for leverage points.
"Federal authorities are very interested in your whereabouts," I begin conversationally. "Officially, you're in the wind after the raid. Unofficially..." I gesture to our surroundings. "You're having an off-the-record conversation with me."
"Is that what we're calling this?" Griffin's tone is sardonic, but I catch the calculation behind his eyes. He's smart enough to understand his precarious position.
"What we call it depends entirely on how productive our discussion proves to be." I lean against the wall, deliberately casual. "The feds have enough to put you away for decades—trafficking, racketeering, conspiracy, weapons charges. That's without adding the murder charges they're building."
He shrugs, the movement limited by his restraints. "Hearing a lot of federal problems. Nothing that explains my current accommodations with the Saints."
"Let's just say our interests temporarily align with law enforcement, but our methods offer more flexibility." I straighten, stepping closer. "We want information the feds might not think to ask for. Or might choose to ignore if it complicates their case."
A flicker of interest crosses his face—the first genuine reaction. "And in return?"
"Depends on what you're offering." I maintain a neutral expression despite the surge of anticipation. He's engaging, which means he believes he has something valuable enough to trade.
"I'm not offering shit until I understand the terms," Griffin counters. "I know how this works, Reed. Information has value only when properly leveraged."
I consider my approach carefully. Push too hard, he shuts down. Reveal too much interest, he overvalues his position. The interrogation is a delicate balance of pressure and incentive, particularly with someone as experienced as Griffin.
"Here's the situation as I see it," I begin, pacing slowly before him. "You're facing federal charges that guarantee life imprisonment. The Reapers are decimated after our raids. Hargrove's operation is exposed. Your former associates know you've been captured and will assume you're talking." I pause, letting the implications sink in. "Your past is gone, Griffin. The only variable is your future."
He listens impassively, but I note the subtle tensing of his jaw—recognition of truths he's already calculated.
"The feds can offer witness protection," I continue. "New identity, minimum security. But they can't guarantee your safety inside the system, especially against an organization with the reach you know exists."
"And the Saints can?" Skepticism edges his voice.
"We offer different advantages. Immediate escape from federal custody. Transport to a non-extradition country. Sufficient funds to establish yourself elsewhere." I meet his eyes directly. "But only for information that justifies that investment."
The offer isn't officially sanctioned by the club, but I know Vulture would support it if Griffin's intelligence proves valuable enough. Some battles require uncomfortable compromises.
Griffin stares at me, assessing the authenticity of the proposition. Finally, he chuckles—a dry, humorless sound. "You have no idea what you're really dealing with, do you?"
"Enlighten me," I reply, keeping my expression neutral despite the surge of anticipation.
"Hargrove, the Reapers, the local trafficking operation—it's just one small branch of a much larger tree." Griffin leans forward as much as his restraints allow. "What you've uncovered is effectively a regional franchise. One operation in a global network."
Though I've suspected as much, hearing confirmation sends ice through my veins. "Details."
"The organization operates on four continents. Territorial managers like Hargrove oversee regional operations with local muscle—in our case, the Reapers. Above the territorial level is what they call 'The Board'—six individuals who coordinate global operations." Griffin watches my reaction carefully. "Taking down Hargrove is like removing a middle manager from Amazon. Satisfying, perhaps, but ultimately inconsequential to the larger operation."
"Names," I demand. "Locations. Structure."
"Not so fast." Griffin's confidence grows visibly as he recognizes the value of his knowledge. "We need to establish parameters. What exactly am I getting in exchange for international intelligence that goes well beyond your local concerns?"
