“Well, I’ve been able to count since I was twenty, so… yeah, you’re very interested in that phone that’s not your main one.”
Isaac didn’t respond. Ryder glanced at him once, then went back to the barrel. He didn't push. He never pushed. But he never forgot, either.
He forced himself to focus on the screen. Transition plan. Handoff notes. The clean, professional work of closing a case that had occupied his team for weeks. He typed three sentences before checking the phone again.
Nothing.
“Holy shit.” Ryder’s laugh pulled him back. He’d set down the weapon and was looking at his laptop, head tilted. “News alert. Some Austin big shot just got torched in the press. Check your feed.”
Isaac pulled up the news. The headline loaded first, then the photo.
PROMINENT AUSTIN PHILANTHROPIST EXPOSED: CRAIG MANSOOR ACCUSED OF DEFRAUDING CHILDREN’S CANCER CHARITY.
Ryder was leaning back in his chair. "Craig Mansoor. I recognize that name. I think he's been at some of the events where we were working."
Isaac was reading the article. Financial records leaked to six media outlets simultaneously. Donor funds diverted into personal accounts. Gemstones purchased with money earmarked for children’s chemotherapy. A forensic breakdown so thorough it read like a prosecution brief.
“He definitely got what was coming to him,” Ryder said. “Damn. I would’veaccidentallytripped and punched the guy in the jaw if I’d known he was stealing from kids with cancer. Multiple times. Just tripping all over myself, the way I sometimes do.”
Isaac scrolled through the photos accompanying the article. Mansoor at a podium. Mansoor shaking hands with a state senator. Mansoor at a black-tie event, silver hair swept back, that navy blazer, the smile of a man who’d never been told no.
Something about the face. He knew it from somewhere.
Peter’s voice cut in from the laptop screen. “This isn’t the first time something like this has happened. A wealthy target in Seattle got taken down the same way about six months ago. Public exposure, financial crimes documented, press tipped simultaneously. And there was one in Miami before that. Last year. Whoever is doing this, I’m a big fan. It has to be some organization.”
“Taking-Down-Rich-Assholes-R-Us.” Ryder chuckled. “Where can I send my membership dues?”
“It’s been the same playbook each time,” Peter continued. “Financial records surface out of nowhere. Multiple outlets get the story at the same time, so nobody can kill it. The target’s reputation gets shredded overnight. And in at least two of the previous cases, personal property was stolen. Valuable stuff—art, jewelry. Gone.”
“Sounds like somebody’s helping karma along,” Ryder said.
The air left Isaac’s lungs.
Helping karma along.
Fallon’s voice at the masquerade, when he asked how she chose the people she pickpocketed.
There’s always a reason. Maybe I like to help karma along.
He went back to the article. Scrolled to the photo gallery. Mansoor at the masquerade. The banner behind him readMansoor Family Foundation Annual Gala. His foundation.
That had been his event. His property.
Isaac’s stomach dropped.
“Yo, Isaac.” His voice had shifted. “You just went white.”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Give me a second.”
He pulled up the guest list from the Heritage Center event—the breaking fingers guys, the night he’d pulled Fallon into a utility closet. He scrolled through names until he found it.
Craig Mansoor. Table twelve. VIP donor.
Then he looked at Mansoor’s photo again. Stared at it. The silver hair, the slim build, the navy blazer.
