Chapter 7 - The Counter-Strike
"We don't use weapons," I said immediately.
Miller arched an eyebrow. "Julian has eight armed security contractors at his estate in River Hills, Marcus. They aren't mall guards. They're ex-corporate mercenaries on a five-thousand-dollar monthly retainer."
"I don't care if they're former Delta," I said. "This isn't an ambush. If we go in shooting, Julian becomes a victim and the media turns Evelyn into the daughter of a rogue vigilante. We take him down with the one weapon he thinks he controls: the law."
Hector grinned, his single eye glinting under the work lights. "I have the federal bank records, Marcus. Julian has been skimming three percent off every municipal school construction bond for six years. The IRS Criminal Investigation Division has an open case file on him that's been stalled for nine months because the local US Attorney’s office in this district was taking campaign donations from Julian’s political action committee."
"Can you bypass the local US Attorney?" I asked.
"I can route the decrypted evidence packet directly to the Department of Justice Special Crimes Unit in Washington," Hector said. "I have an old contact from Army Intelligence who runs their financial task force. Once that file hits the federal wire in DC, no city judge, no corrupt precinct captain, and no county magistrate can touch it without being indicted for obstruction of justice."
"How long to transmit?"
"Ten minutes to compile the cryptographic keys," Hector said. "Five minutes to upload."
"Do it," I ordered. "And what about Dustin?"
Doc Robinson pulled up a video file on a second monitor. "I tapped into the city traffic surveillance grid outside Dustin's condo two hours ago. Look at this."
On the screen, a black Escalade was parked in the alley behind Dustin's building. Two men were loading heavy duffel bags into the rear cargo compartment. Dustin himself was there, his right arm in an improvised sling, his face pale and swollen, leaning against the rear fender while talking frantically into a burner phone.
"He's running," Doc said. "He knows the beating he took at the gym blew the lid off his operation. Julian gave him fifty grand in cash and a passport to Costa Rica. He's heading for the private airfield in Waukegan in forty-five minutes."
I looked at the clock on the warehouse wall.
5:48 PM.
One hour and twelve minutes before Kowalski's warrant went active on the state police wire.
"Doc," I said. "You and Miller stay with Hector. Get that federal indictment filed and make sure a copy lands on the desk of every news director in the state."
"And where are you going, Marcus?" Miller asked, his eyes narrowing.
May you like
I pulled my truck keys from my pocket—the keys to the old Ford that was still parked behind the gym, which Doc had quietly retrieved and driven to the warehouse thirty minutes earlier.
"I have an appointment at an airfield," I said.