"The warehouse on Pier 47. I'll meet you there in thirty minutes. No one else. Just you and me. Understood?"
"Understood."
I went back to the conference room. Leaned down to whisper to Sandro. "We caught him. I'm handling it personally. You and Julian finish here."
Sandro nodded. Didn't miss a beat in his presentation to the investors.
Julian looked at me with questions in his eyes. I gave him a small nod.We'll talk later. It's fine.
Then I left to deal with the mole who'd been betraying us for months.
***
The warehouse on Pier 47 was one of our more isolated properties. Legitimate shipping and receiving during business hours. Perfect for private conversations after dark.
My security chief had Jake secured in a chair in the back office when I arrived. Hands zip-tied behind him. Looking terrified but trying to maintain composure.
"Leave us," I said to my security chief.
"Sir, are you sure—"
"I'm sure. Wait outside. No one comes in. No one interrupts. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
He left. The door closed. Locked from the outside.
Just me and Jake Byrne. Senior accountant. Five years with the organization. Trusted employee who'd been feeding information to the FBI.
I pulled up a chair. Sat across from him. Just looked at him for a long moment.
"I didn't—it's not what it looks like—" Jake started.
"Don't." My voice was cold. Flat. "We have surveillance footage of you accessing restricted files. Downloading information outside your clearance. Taking screenshots of security protocols. We have logs showing you've been doing this for months. We have financial traces connecting you to shell companies that paid the three low-level moles who preceded you."
Jake's face went pale.
"So let's skip the denials. Skip the lies. You're caught. The only question now is why you did it and what happens next."
"I didn't have a choice—"
"Everyone has choices. The question is what pressured yours." I leaned forward. "Talk. Tell me everything. Who approached you? When? What did they threaten? What did you give them?"
Jake was shaking. Real terror in his eyes. Good. He should be terrified.
"After the RICO trial. An FBI agent approached me outside my apartment. Said they knew about... about mistakes on my wife's tax returns. Unreported income. Falsified deductions. Said they had enough to prosecute her for tax fraud."
"Did they?"
"I don't know. Maybe. She runs a small business. She made mistakes. Nothing intentional but—they made it sound serious. Said she could go to prison. Lose everything. And it would be my fault because I work for you. Because I'm connected to organized crime."
"So they offered you a deal."
"They said if I cooperated, they'd make the investigation disappear. Said all I had to do was provide information about Inferno's operations. Financial records. Meeting schedules. Security protocols. They called it 'routine monitoring.' Made it sound like I wouldn't really be hurting anyone."
"What did you give them?"
Jake's voice was barely above a whisper. "Everything they asked for. Financial structures. Revenue streams—both legitimate and questionable. Partner meeting schedules. Security camera placements. Employee information. Details about shipments and operations. I didn't want to. God, I didn't want to. But they kept threatening my wife. Kept saying she'd go to prison if I stopped cooperating."
