I walk toward him with the shotgun aimed steadily at him, closing the distance without hesitation.
“Please,” he gasps, his voice wet and broken as he struggles to breathe. “I don’t know where Grant went. He left early. I swear.”
I press the barrel under his chin and tilt his head up so he has no choice but to look at me. His entire body shakes under the pressure, and his breath stutters unevenly against the metal.
I think of my mother’s face on that screen, bruised, crying, apologizing for something that was never her fault.
“You're going to give me everything you have,” my voice is flat and stripped of anything human. “Anything tied to the Collective. To Grant. Contacts. Ways in.”
“Yes,” he sobs immediately. “Yes. Anything. Please. Just tell me if I do, will you let me live.”
“You’re not in any position to negotiate,” I tell him, “but it won’t hurt your chances.”
I hold my hand out.
“Your phone.”
He hesitates, and that hesitation costs him.
The barrel presses harder into his skin, forcing his head back another inch.
He fumbles the phone out with shaking fingers and hands it over, his grip unsteady and desperate.
“Unlock it.”
He does.
I don't move the gun.
“Open your banking.”
His breathing stutters harder now, panic bleeding into every movement. “I can’t, there are limits, there are approvals.”
I press the barrel harder into his throat, cutting off whatever excuse he thinks will save him.
“Well, you better figure out a way to make it work because that piece of shit took my mother’s life.” My voice drops lower and colder with every word. “So now, I’m gonna drain every dime from the fucking Collective, and I’m gonna kill all of you.”
His eyes widen, terror finally breaking through whatever composure he has left.
“I can send some,” he stammers. “Ten million. Maybe more. I need access codes.”
“Do it.”
His hands shake so badly that he fumbles the screen twice before finally getting into the account.
I pull my burner from my pocket and unlock it, turning the screen toward him.
“Wire it to this account.”
His eyes flick to the numbers. He doesn't question it. He knows better.
It is one of my offshore accounts. Clean enough to move through without immediate flags, buried under layers I built long before tonight.
I watch everything.
I watch every number, every transfer, every confirmation as it happens in real time.
“Twenty.”
