The diner on the outskirts of Brooklyn smelled of grease and stale coffee. It was 2:00 AM. William, Julian, and Maya sat in a booth in the back, huddled over the isotope reports.
“The hair sample proves he was in Switzerland,” Maya said, frustrated. “But without the chain of custody, it’s inadmissible in court. He’ll claim we tampered with it.”
“We need a smoking gun,” Julian muttered.
The bell above the diner door jingled. A man in a hooded trench coat walked in, shaking rain from his shoulders. He scanned the room, saw them, and walked straight to their booth.
It was Malcolm. He looked exhausted, paler than usual, his transplant scar likely aching from the travel, but his eyes were sharp.
“You look terrible,” William said, sliding over to make room.
“You look homeless,” Malcolm retorted, sitting down. He didn’t waste time with pleasantries. He reached into his coat and slammed the black ledger onto the sticky table.
“What is this?” Maya asked.
“Proof,” Malcolm said, opening the book to the Zurich entries. “Alistair didn’t fake his death to hide from rivals. He faked it to run a money-laundering operation for a global crime ring called The Syndicate. He’s not just a bad father, William. He’s a felon.”
William stared at the ledger. This wasn’t just corporate malfeasance. This was RICO. This was the end of the game.
“The Alliance is back in business,” William said, looking at his brother.