Chapter 17 - The Final Checkmate
Senator Sterling had absolutely no choice but to comply with my demands. By bankrupting his shadow accounts, I had placed a massive, invisible target squarely on his back. The cartel would execute him the moment he lost their funds, making the safety of a high-security European prison look incredibly appealing by comparison.
Florence and I arranged the meeting at an abandoned, snow-covered airfield on the outskirts of Geneva. I had used my remaining unmonitored funds to quietly hire a squad of independent, highly reputable private military contractors from London to secure the perimeter. I was done relying on corrupt federal agents; I was buying my own uncompromised army for the final confrontation.
The bitter alpine wind whipped across the empty tarmac as a sleek, black private jet touched down. It taxied slowly toward our position, its engines whining loudly before completely cutting off. The cabin door opened, and the stairs unfolded onto the icy concrete.
Senator Sterling stepped out of the aircraft alone. He looked absolutely ruined. His expensive cashmere coat was wrinkled, his face was pale and gaunt, and the arrogant swagger of a powerful Washington politician was entirely gone. He walked slowly toward us, his hands trembling violently in the freezing air.
Florence stepped forward, holding the heavy leather ledger in her left hand and keeping her right hand firmly resting on the grip of her concealed weapon. She looked at the man who had orchestrated the murder of our family, the man who had forced her to fake her own death and abandon her daughter.
Sterling stopped ten feet away, refusing to meet Florence's eyes. He looked directly at me, begging me to reverse the financial trades so the cartel wouldn't murder him before Interpol could lock him up. He promised to confess to everything on international television, provided I gave him a fighting chance to survive the cartel's wrath.
I told him I had already sent the digital evidence and a high-resolution scan of the ledger to every major news organization and intelligence agency on the planet. I explained that his political career, his criminal empire, and his freedom were already permanently destroyed.
Suddenly, the heavy cargo door of Sterling's private jet kicked open. The massive, scarred tactical leader from the Berkeley warehouse—the man whose nose I had broken days ago—stepped out onto the tarmac. He was holding a high-powered sniper rifle, completely defying Sterling's agreement to come alone. The mercenary had realized Sterling was a dead man and decided to take the billion-dollar bounty the cartel had placed on my head instead.
He aimed the rifle directly at Florence's chest, shouting that nobody was leaving the airfield alive.
Before the mercenary could even pull the trigger, the private contractors I had hired stepped out from behind the snowbanks. Six red laser dots instantly appeared on the mercenary's chest and forehead. The lead contractor calmly informed the tactical leader that his bounty was officially expired.
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The mercenary slowly lowered his rifle, realizing he was entirely outgunned and outmaneuvered by a billionaire who simply had more resources.
Florence walked right up to Senator Sterling, pulled a pair of heavy steel handcuffs from her pocket, and violently secured his wrists behind his back. She looked him dead in the eye and told him he was officially under arrest for treason.
