The next morning, the brothers stood outside the Federal Building in Manhattan. The wind whipped at their coats. Malcolm clutched the black leather briefcase containing the decrypted Swiss ledger.
“This ends today,” Malcolm said, his jaw set. “This book proves treason. Not even Alistair can bribe his way out of selling weapons to warlords.”
They pushed through the revolving doors. But before they could reach the security checkpoint, three men in dark suits stepped out from the side alcove, blocking their path. They didn’t look like federal agents; they looked like sharks.
“Mr. Croft,” the lead man said, addressing William. He flashed a badge that looked real, but his eyes were cold. “We’ll take that evidence off your hands. The Director has asked us to handle the… internal review.”
“We’re here to see the Special Prosecutor,” William said, stepping forward.
The man opened his jacket, revealing a holstered weapon. “The Special Prosecutor is having lunch with your father, Mr. Croft. He suggests you go home.”
Malcolm stepped back, the color draining from his face. Alistair hadn’t just corrupted the company; his “Syndicate” had tendrils deep within the justice system. The law wasn’t coming to save them. It was working for the enemy.