“He won’t,” Ethan said, looking at the door. “He’s a coward.
He’s a thief, not a killer. He hires killers. And his killer is lying right there.”
Ethan took off his glasses and wiped the good lens with the edge of his shirt. “Get ready. The show starts soon. And we’re directing.”
He felt no fear. Only the cold thrill of a gambler who had pushed all his chips to the center of the table and was waiting for the dealer to turn the cards. The door would open any minute.
Morning in a jail doesn’t arrive with sunrise. It arrives with bolts slamming back. At eight o’clock, the door to Cell 208 swung open. It wasn’t the duty sergeant with breakfast.
It was a tactical team in masks with batons. And behind them—Major Doran. Head of operations.
Master of this concrete world. Doran walked in confidently, expecting to find a broken, sobbing programmer and a signed confession. He had already prepared the case file.
Instead, he saw something else. In the middle of the cell, in a pool of blood gone dark overnight, lay Corkscrew. His glazed eyes stared up at the major with mute accusation.
Beside him lay the homemade shiv. Against the wall stood three men shoulder to shoulder. Big Val with bandaged arms, grim Silent Mike, and Ethan.
Pale, in a blood-soaked sweater, one hand strapped to his chest, glasses broken. They were not cowering in corners. They stood like a firing squad waiting for the order.
“Good Lord,” Doran breathed. The smell of blood and waste hit him and knocked the swagger out of him. “What did you animals do?”
“Self-defense, sir,” Val answered hoarsely but calmly. “Your man snapped. Came at us with a blade.
We had to stop him.” Doran looked at Ethan, at the broken fingers, the bloody shoulder. “And you, hacker. Still alive?”
“Functional,” Ethan said in that flat voice. “The paper is ready.” Doran’s eyes lit up.
The dead junkie didn’t matter to him. He could write that off as an overdose or a fight. What mattered was the paper.
The confession that would close the bank theft case and save his own skin. “Office,” the major ordered. “All three of them.
Remove the body. Sanitize the cell.” The operations office was another world.
It smelled of polished wood, leather, and air conditioning. A portrait of the president hung on the wall. On the desk sat a heavy green desk set and three telephones.
Ethan, Val, and Silent Mike were brought in wearing handcuffs. They were seated on chairs bolted to the floor. The guards stayed outside.
Doran sat behind his desk and unbuttoned his jacket. He was warm. “Well?” the major tapped his fingers on the desk.
“Let’s have the statement.” Val, whose hands were cuffed in front, awkwardly pulled a folded sheet from his pocket. The same sheet Ethan had dictated during the night.
He laid it on the polished desk. Doran snatched it up. Opened it.
His face, red and sweaty, began to change. First confusion. Then his eyebrows rose.
Then the color drained out of him, leaving a gray mask. It was not a confession to fraud. It was numbers.
405-B-12. Blue Horizon. $150,000.
Doran slowly raised his eyes to Ethan. “What is this?”
