Chapter 4 - THE SHADOW NETWORK
Richard St. Clair stepped forward from behind his tactical shield, his face hardened by decades of federal service. "Save the theatrics, Orson. We have the data log from the inhaler. It places the offshore accounts for the South American shipping lines directly in your personal name."
"Does it?" Orson asked smoothly, opening his silver case and lighting a dark clove cigar with a calm, steady flame.
"The transmission was verified ten minutes ago," Richard declared triumphantly. "Your wife pulled the data directly from your safe."
"My wife is an ambitious fool," Orson replied, exhaling a thin cloud of blue smoke into the rain. "And you, Richard, are a incompetent puppet."
Orson reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a small black remote control. He pressed a single red button.
Instantly, the glaring searchlights on all twenty tactical vehicles flickered and died. The armored vehicles' engines sputtered and stalled as their electrical systems were completely fried by a localized electromagnetic pulse array built into the estate's outer perimeter pillars.
The federal agents gasped in confusion as their night-vision optics whined and went dark.
"What did you do?!" Richard demanded, reaching frantically for his sidearm.
Before any agent could raise a rifle, twenty men in unmarked, matte-black tactical gear emerged silently from the treeline surrounding the property. They moved with absolute, terrifying precision, disarming the federal agents before the men could even clear their holsters.
"These aren't my syndicate guards, Richard," Orson said softly, stepping down the marble stairs until he stood inches from the lead agent. "These are operatives from the International Maritime Intelligence Directorate. The very agency your superiors have been trying to infiltrate for five years."
Richard’s eyes widened in sheer horror. "You... you don't run a Chicago mob. You're..."
"I'm the director," Orson said flatly. "And your niece didn't steal my criminal ledgers. She stole a classified federal sting asset that my team placed in my home eight months ago to catch the mole inside your task force."
May you like
Orson reached out, taking the bullhorn from Richard's limp hand.
"Tamsin wasn't working for you, Richard," Orson added, his voice dropping into a chilling whisper. "She was working for the Syndicate families in New York. And she just handed me the entire registry of every dirty agent on your payroll."
