We watch for thirty more nauseating minutes. Tarasov is openly weeping now, wriggling in his chair, begging Bennett and Richardson to believe him. Without any prompting at all, helays out all the brotherhood’s finances. He recites bank account numbers. He discloses every transaction he’s laundered through RedBear.
Cole vacuums up the cash until the total approaches nine figures. “Enough,” he finally says, backing out of the last account. “Let’s wrap this up.”
I send a final message to Ariadne’s Daughters: “Endgame.”
Within seconds, comments blossom under the most popular posts my team has distributed. They appear to come from dozens of different accounts, then in short order, from hundreds. I know they’re bot farms my team created, AI tools built to spread information fast, without regard to truths or falsehoods.
This motherfucker needs to die
Give me five minutes in a dark alley with that scumbag and he’ll never breed again
The video says FBI. Anyone know where?
Then a new set of comments gains sway.
If you or anyone you know is a survivor of sexual assault, Survivors of Sexual Sadists can help.
Survivors of Sexual Sadists popup rally in Farragut Park!
SSS peaceful march to K Street
The posts spread like the branches of a tree, repeating and repeating and repeating again, always reaching farther, always finding new readers.
Another hour goes by, with Richardson and Bennett plucking more and more limited confessions from Tarasov. The pakhan is spinning down like a wind-up toy running out of power.
Cole grabs the headset and speaks into the mic. “Excellent work, you two. That’s enough. Make sure everyone knows this building’s address, and you’re done.”
Bennett smoothly says to Tarasov, “Okay. Here’s what happens next. We’re on K Street in downtown DC, a block off Farragut Park. You know the location, right? The building with the Sunshine Bank in the lobby?”
Tarasov nods. Then he shakes his head. He’s from Baltimore. He doesn’t know lobbies in DC. His eyelids droop as if he’s about to fall asleep at the table.
Bennett slams his fist down. “Listen up! This is important! We’ll have a car waiting downstairs in half an hour. You’ll be taken to a secure location.”
“Secure location,” Tarasov mumbles.
Richardson croons, “Give us a few minutes, okay? We just have to finalize that transport.”
Tarasov nods, muttering something to himself. His interrogators leave him rocking in his chair. Cole kills the camera feed as Bennett and Richardson knock on the observation room door.
“Jesus Fucking Christ,” Bennett says. “There isn’t a long enough shower in the world to wash away that asshole’s stink.”
Richardson stretches her neck left, then right, cracking her vertebrae. “Anything else you need from us?”
“Nothing,” Cole says. “You two were brilliant. We’ll take fifteen minutes before we bring him downstairs. Give the crowd a little more time to build.”
Bennett looks at Tarasov’s slumped body with a sneer of disgust. “He’s out of it. He won’t know if we wait a couple of hours.”
I step onto the main floor of the office. It’s eerie, with all the cubicles abandoned. But it’s far from silent.
Crossing to the wall of windows that overlook Farragut Park, I see that a large crowd has already gathered on the sidewalk. Some carry signs. Others raise their fists in the rhythm of chants I can’t make out.
Cole comes up behind me. “Megan’s on the loading dock with the movers. I’ve hacked into the lobby screens. Ready to go downstairs?”
I nod. “Let’s bury the shitehawk.”
We take the elevator down to the lobby where Drew Cameron and Tony Jacobson rise from a pair of leather-covered benches. They put themselves between us and the mob outside.
From this vantage point, I can read several hand-painted signs.
