Sienna Langford
I pulled up to a vacant stretch of road on the edge of an industrial block and killed the engine. There were no stores or houses for miles. There was no reason for anybody to be out there unless they were trying not to be seen. I got out of my car, scanning the block anyway.
A black sedan sat a few spaces away with tinted windows so dark you couldn’t see a shadow inside. I walked over, opened the passenger door, and slid in.
The woman behind the wheel just stared straight ahead with both hands on the steering wheel.
I shut the door harder than I needed to on purpose. “You’re going to blow my cover if you keep calling me and summoning me like this.”
She ignored my nagging. “Do you have anything real on the Cartiers yet?”
I scoffed at her attitude. Agent Mallory was always such a bitch. “Reek hasn’t opened up to me like that yet.”
Her eyes cut to me. “Then make him.”
“I’m not a magician,” I snapped. “I’m doing what I can.”
“You’re doing what you can for yourself,” she corrected. “Don’t confuse that with effort.”
I rolled my eyes, staring out of the window. Though I knew I hadn’t been followed, it still felt like there were eyes on me, so I scanned the block.
“You have a few weeks left before this deal expires. After that, we charge you.”
I stared at her. “Charge me with what, exactly?”
“Conspiracy. Wire fraud. Bribery. Obstruction. Pick one. Pick them all. You’ve given us enough.
” My throat went dry as she went on, “You helped people steal,” she replied.
“You helped people hide money. You helped people influence public process for private gain. And you used your father’s position to do it. That is not a slap on the wrist.”
I leaned back in the seat, pissed all over again. “So, what do you want me to do? Drag cartel information out of him in the middle of dinner?”
“I want evidence. Recordings. Names. Locations. Something that holds up in court. If Reek is your door, then fucking open it. Or you’re going down. Your father goes down. Your firm goes down.”
I stared at her for a long moment. Then I finally spit, “Is that all?”
“Yes, get out,” she replied, like she was bored.
I scoffed bitterly, then shoved the door open. When I stepped out, I slammed it so hard the car rocked. The sedan pulled off before I even made it back to my own vehicle.
“Fucking bitch.”
I walked to my car and climbed in with my hands shaking. I gripped the steering wheel, feeling the walls closing in on me. But I would never be at ease as long as the Feds had me cornered.
Politics are expensive, and my father needed money, he needed people in his corner, and he needed problems handled. Without my father knowing, I helped keep the machine greased because I wanted to be useful and the one he trusted when he couldn’t trust anybody else.
But the Feds caught up with me a few months ago.
They had emails where I approved spending that didn’t match what my firm reported.
They had transfers that went out as “vendor payments,” but the vendors were shells.
They had invoices with my LLC on them that looked clean, but the work behind them either never happened or wasn’t what the paperwork claimed.
I billed “community outreach,” “crisis communications,” and “consulting,” then used those line items to move money where it wasn’t supposed to go.
I pushed payments to people you couldn’t pay on the books.
I routed money through friendly contractors so it came back around without anybody writing it down as a kickback.
I signed off on expenses that were really political favors and influence buys, not PR.
My father had no idea. I was just one of the people funding his political machine.
When the Feds found out, I told them I could give them something bigger. I had overheard my father talking about working with a cartel before the “Cartel condos” story ever hit the internet. So, I offered the Feds the Cartiers in exchange for a deal.
To get in, I leaked to the media that Project 83 was funded by dirty money.
I fed activists and community groups just enough to spark outrage about “Cartel condos,” because I knew my father would ask me to fix the blowback.
I figured if I could get inside their circle, I could bring the Feds what they wanted in exchange for what I needed.
So, I got close to the circle the only way I could.
I started the car and sat there for a second, staring through the windshield, wondering how I could make Reek open up to me.
Reek was a vault. The only thing he was interested in was pussy and doing what he had to do for the cameras to ensure that that development got built.
He wouldn’t open up to me about his personal life, especially his business with the Cartiers.
But I had to ensure that he did. I had to say and do whatever it took to get evidence I could hand over to the Feds and put the Cartiers in prison instead of me.