Chapter 4 - The Weight of Justice
The doors of the restaurant didn't open,
but a side entrance hissed as the seal broke.
Four men entered,
dressed in charcoal grey suits,
their faces devoid of any emotion.
They weren't police,
nor were they soldiers.
They were cleaners.
They walked with a synchronized,
predatory grace that made Victor shrink into his seat.
The leader,
a man with a jagged scar across his jaw,
approached me and bowed his head slightly.
“Director,”
he said,
his voice a gravelly rasp.
“The assets have been seized.”
“The evidence has been distributed.”
“The perimeter is secure.”
I nodded,
the title ‘Director’ hanging in the air like a heavy curtain.
Victor’s eyes darted between the men and me.
“Director?”
he whispered,
the word tasting like ash in his mouth.
“Who are you?”
I walked back to my seat and sat down,
crossing my legs with deliberate slow motion.
“I was the woman you shouldn't have touched,”
I said.
“I was the ghost that kept this city running while you were busy playing at being a businessman.”
I gestured to the men in suits.
“These gentlemen are here to ensure that the transition of your life from 'privileged' to 'extinct' goes smoothly.”
Victor tried to stand,
but one of the men placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
The pressure was enough to make Victor wince.
“Sit,”
the man commanded.
Victor sat.
“You see,
Victor,”
I continued,
picking up a silver fork and examining its tines.
“You made a very common mistake.”
“You assumed that because I was quiet,
I was weak.”
“You assumed that because I was old,
I was defenseless.”
“But in my world,
the oldest people are the ones who are the most dangerous.”
“Because we are the ones who survived the games you haven't even learned the rules to yet.”
I looked at the clock.
18:44:45.
Fifteen seconds until the three-minute mark.
Lorraine began to sob,
a low,
mournful sound that filled the room.
She looked at the diamond collar on the table,
the one she had bragged about.
One of the cleaners picked it up,
inspected it with a jeweler’s loupe,
and then dropped it into a plastic evidence bag.
“Stolen,”
the cleaner remarked.
“From the Romanov collection in '09.”
Victor’s eyes went wide.
He had bought it on the black market,
thinking he was untouchable.
“Everything you own is a crime,
Victor,”
I said.
May you like
“And now,
the bill is due.”
