Chapter 9
The next morning, the bright, cheerful sunlight felt like a mocking insult to Michael Hayes. He sat in his corner office in downtown Boston, the panoramic windows overlooking the city he thought he commanded. His crisp suit felt tight and suffocating as he frantically pressed the receiver of his desk phone to his ear.
"What do you mean the accounts are locked?" Michael yelled, his American accent cracking with pure panic. "I am the primary account holder! You cannot just freeze ten million dollars in operating capital without a warrant!"
"I am sorry, Mr. Hayes," the bank manager’s voice trembled through the speaker. "The freeze was initiated by the central holding authority. There are red flags regarding unsecured foreign loans. We have been instructed to halt all transactions indefinitely."
Michael slammed the phone down, sweeping his arm across his desk and sending a stack of files crashing to the floor. His fair, rosy skin was pale, slick with a cold sweat. It had started at 6:00 AM. His black card was declined at a coffee shop. His personal driver quit via text message. And when he arrived at his building, the security team had demanded to see his ID, treating him like a stranger.
Roland was dismantling his life with terrifying speed.
Before Michael could formulate a plan to counter the financial freeze, the heavy glass doors to his office swung open without a knock.
Michael stood up, his heart pounding against his ribs. Standing in the doorway were three massive, broad-shouldered men. They did not wear the tailored, elegant suits of the American mafia. They wore thick leather jackets and carried the unmistakable, brutal aura of the Russian Bratva.
"What is the meaning of this?" Michael demanded, trying to project a false sense of authority, though his voice shook. "Get out of my office! I am calling security!"
The lead Russian, a man with a thick beard and dead, shark-like eyes, stepped into the room and locked the glass door behind him.
"Security went home, Michael," the Russian said, his accent thick and guttural. "Viktor sent us. He heard a rumor that your father-in-law is no longer backing your debts. He heard a rumor that you are a broke, dead man."
"That is a lie!" Michael shouted, backing up against the panoramic window. "I have the money! I just need twenty-four hours to move the funds from the offshore accounts!"
"You have zero hours," the Russian smiled, pulling a heavy, suppressed pistol from his jacket. "Viktor wants the five million. Or he wants a pound of flesh. Since you do not have the money, we will start with your knees."
Michael’s cell phone began to ring on his desk. He lunged for it, desperate for a lifeline. He snatched it up, seeing Emily’s name on the caller ID.
"Emily! Thank God!" Michael screamed into the phone. "Please, tell your father to call them off! The Russians are in my office! They are going to kill me!"
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"I told you not to embarrass me, Michael," Emily’s voice came through the speaker, cold, distant, and utterly devoid of pity. "Enjoy the leftovers."
The line went dead just as the Russian raised his weapon.
