Chapter 6
The sun had long since set, casting long, industrial shadows across the crumbling concrete of the city’s warehouse district. An old rusted chain-link fence surrounded a sprawling, corrugated metal building where muffled bass thudded through the night air like a distant heartbeat. Mark parked his sedan in the shadows, killing the headlights immediately. The interior of the car was thick with tension.
Claire unbuckled her seatbelt, adjusting her dark blue cardigan. "Are you ready?" she asked, glancing sideways at her husband.
Mark flexed his hands inside his new athletic wraps—clean, white, and untorn. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly through his mouth. "I'm ready. But if things go sideways, you take the keys and you drive straight to the precinct. Do you understand me?"
"We go in together, and we walk out together," Claire insisted, her voice leaving no room for argument. "Vince respects strength, but he fears exposure. We stick to the script."
They stepped out into the cool night air, walking shoulder-to-shoulder toward the reinforced side door of the warehouse. A hulking bouncer in a leather jacket stepped out from the shadows, blocking their path with a bored expression. He recognized Mark immediately, his gaze shifting with mild surprise to Claire standing firmly beside him.
"Fighters only in the back, pal," the bouncer grunted, crossing his massive arms over his chest. "And you brought a spectator? That's against protocol."
"She's not a spectator," Mark said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly register that brooked no argument. "She's my representative. And we're here to see Vince about closing my account permanently."
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The bouncer narrowed his eyes, sensing the unusual shift in energy. Before he could object, Claire stepped past Mark, holding up a thick manila envelope stamped with state seal watermarks—copies of the forensic audit she had prepared that morning.
"Tell Vince that the state attorney general's office sends their regards," Claire said calmly, her voice steady as iron. "And tell him we'd rather settle our accounts with him directly than hand these over to the federal marshals waiting in the unmarked car down the block."
