Chapter 11 - The Confession of a Rat
The cold metal barrel pressed against the bridge of Julian Vance’s nose forced a ragged, terrified gasp from his throat. His fingers twitched helplessly above the keyboard, the progress bar on the glowing monitor stalling at 92%.
“Dominic... please,” Julian whimpered, his eyes crossed as he stared frantically down the sights of my gun. “I swear to God, Moretti cornered me in Zurich. He knew about my offshore accounts, he knew my family’s address... he said if I didn't hack into the Valente mainframe and hand over the encryption keys, my wife and kids would end up in the lake.”
I didn't blink. I didn't lower the weapon by a millimeter.
“You always were a liar, Julian,” I said, my voice dead and level. “You gambled away your savings at the tables in Monte Carlo three years ago. Moretti didn't have to blackmail you; he just had to write a check large enough to cover your debts.”
Julian’s lower lip quivered. The pathetic facade cracked, revealing the greedy, spineless coward beneath.
“He paid me two million upfront!” Julian blurted out, tears springing to his eyes. “And another five million once the syndicate's financial network collapsed! Dominic, look at the monitors—the download is almost complete! If you pull that trigger, the transfer locks automatically and dumps every file straight to the FBI and the Chicago Police Department!”
From behind me, Victor stepped forward, casting a long, heavy shadow over the desk. He looked down at the progress bar, then up at me.
“Boss,” Victor muttered, his hand resting on his sidearm. “If the federal authorities get those keys, our entire operation is exposed within the hour. What do you want to do?”
I stared at Julian for three agonizing seconds. Then, slowly, I cocked the hammer of my pistol.
“Let it download,” I whispered.
Julian’s eyes bulged in absolute disbelief. “What?! Are you insane? It’ll ruin you!”
“It would ruin me,” I corrected, my eyes narrowing into a lethal glare. “If those files actually went to the FBI. But look closely at the port your thumb drive is plugged into, Julian.”
Julian frantically glanced down at the USB port.
“That’s not our primary main network,” I continued, a cold, humorless smile touching my lips. “That’s an isolated, honeypot server we set up three years ago specifically to trap corporate embezzlers and rats like you. The moment you plugged that drive in, your code didn't steal our ledger—it uploaded a destructive payload straight into whatever device you used to communicate with Moretti.”
As if on cue, Julian’s personal burner phone sitting on the edge of the desk began to smoke, hissing sharply before emitting a bright, miniature spark.
Julian stared at it in paralyzed horror.
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“Victor,” I said, stepping back from the desk. “Break his fingers so he can never type code again, bag him, and throw him in the trunk. It’s time we paid a personal visit to Lorenzo Moretti.”
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