Chapter 19 — Im Not Your Currency #2
“Gabriel Moretti capitulating? I doubt it. He’s right there next to you, listening to this, isn’t he? Probably tracing the call. Tell him I’m using a military-grade signal blocker. He won’t find me unless I want to be found.”
Gabriel signaled for me to continue.
“He doesn’t want to find you, Richard. He wants this to end.” I forced exhaustion into my voice. “He’s tired. The Thomas scandal, the FBI... he’s broken. He just wants you gone.”
There was a pause. The mention of Gabriel’s weakness was the hook. Richard couldn’t resist the idea of having broken his rival.
“Excellent. Bring the transfer papers. Signed and notarized. And bring the original file on the mother’s blackmail. I know he didn’t destroy everything.”
I looked at Gabriel. He nodded.
“Where?” I asked.
“Old Textile Factory, on Route 9. Warehouse 4. Come alone, Elena. If I see Gabriel’s car, or if I smell cops... the photos hit the internet before you get out of the car.”
“I don’t drive,” I said. “Gabriel has to take me.”
“Then he can be the driver. But he stays in the car. You come in. I want to see your face when you hand me his empire.”
“Fine. One hour.”
I hung up.
The silence in the car was thick.
“He took the bait,” Gabriel said, jerking the wheel to take the on-ramp to Route 9.
“He wants to see me humiliated,” I murmured. “He wants me to be the one who delivers your defeat.”
“He’s in for a surprise.”
Gabriel reached over and opened the glove compartment. He pulled out a manila envelope.
“What’s that?”
“Blank paper.” He smiled, a joyless smile. “Dead weight to look like legal documents. And a flashbang.”
I stared at the envelope.
“You want me to hand him a bomb?”
“I want you to throw it at his feet and hit the floor. The grenade will blind him for five seconds. That’s all I need to get in and put a bullet in his head.”
“Five seconds,” I repeated. “What if it fails?”
“It won’t fail.” He looked at me, and for a moment, the monster receded and I saw the man. “Do you trust me?”
The question was absurd. After everything. After the lies, the manipulation, the burned dossier.
I looked at the gun in my lap. I looked at his hands on the wheel—the hands that had touched me with love and violence.
“I trust you won’t miss,” I replied.
We arrived at the factory twenty minutes early.
It was a skeleton of steel and brick, abandoned for decades. Warehouse 4 was a dark mouth at the end of a courtyard choked with weeds and industrial debris.
Gabriel stopped the car about a hundred and fifty feet from the entrance, outside the cone of light cast by a lone, flickering streetlamp.
“This is it,” he said, killing the headlights but keeping the engine running.
He turned to me. The tension in the car was electric.
“Elena.” He cupped my face with his left hand. “When you get out of this car... you’re no longer Elena. You’re not the translator. You’re my vengeance. Remember what he did. Remember his touch on your neck. Use it.”
“I will.”
“If something goes wrong... if I can't get in... run. Don't look back. Run for the woods and disappear.”
“I'm not running without you.”
“Elena...”
“No!” I gripped his wrist. “We're in this together. We come out together. Or we die together. There's no Plan B.”
He looked at me, and I saw pride mixed with terror in his eyes. He knew he'd created something he could no longer control.
“Okay.” He released me. “Let's end this.”
I grabbed the envelope with the grenade. I tucked the small gun into the waistband of my pants, at the small of my back, covering it with the loose jacket I was wearing.
I opened the car door.
The night air was cold, smelling of rust and coming rain.
I walked toward the warehouse. My footsteps echoed on the gravel. I could feel Gabriel's eyes on my back, his scope trained on me.
But I could also feel Richard's eyes up ahead.
I entered the warehouse.
The space was vast, lit by construction spotlights that cast long, harsh shadows. Old machines sat covered by tarps, like industrial ghosts.
In the center, sitting in a folding chair, was Richard Hale.
He looked different. His nose was bandaged, his face purple and swollen from Gabriel's blows. His suit was wrinkled. He no longer looked like the elite lawyer; he looked like a street thug who'd gotten lucky.
But the gun in his hand was real. And it was pointed at my chest.
“You came,” he said, his voice nasal and distorted from the injuries. “And you brought the driver.”
He gestured with the gun toward the entrance, where Gabriel's car was visible in the darkness.
“Gabriel's waiting,” I said, stopping about thirty feet from him. My voice echoed in the empty warehouse. “He doesn't want to see you.”
“I bet he doesn't. Must be hard to look at the man who stole everything from him.”
“You didn't steal anything, Richard. You're begging.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Watch your mouth, bitch. You're at a disadvantage here.” He stood up. “Where are the papers?”
I raised the manila envelope.
“Here. The transfer of shares. Gabriel's resignation. Everything.”
“Bring it here.”
I started walking. Each step was measured. I needed to get close enough for the grenade to work, but far enough that he couldn't get a shot off before I hit the floor.
“Slowly,” he ordered. “Open the jacket. I want to see if you're armed.”
I stopped.
If I opened the jacket, he'd see the gun at my back if I turned. Or maybe not.
“I'm wearing sweatpants, Richard.” I opened the jacket with one hand, showing the front of my body. The white t-shirt was tight. There was no bulk in front. “Gabriel doesn't give me guns. He thinks I'm fragile.”
“He always was a sentimental idiot.” Richard relaxed slightly. “Throw the envelope.”
“No.” I held the envelope tight. “You give me the phone with the photos first. And delete the cloud copies in front of me.”
“You're not in a position to negotiate!”