The threat felt closer than ever. The glitching camera, the subtle manipulations – they were deliberate acts of intimidation or surveillance. Someone was watching, and they had access. This reinforced my determination to act, to strike at the network that protected predators and now seemed to be extending its reach towards me. Sterling, the lawyer on Freeman's list connected to my father, was my next target. He was a key enabler, a man who used the law to pervert justice, and my research had confirmed his own vulnerabilities and clandestine habits.
He would be "Simone Dubois's" mark tonight. The objective: extract a confession about the network and his involvement, specifically regarding my father. The location: a discreet, high-end boutique hotel downtown, a place where men like Sterling conducted business away from prying eyes. No compounds this time; the risk was too high with the scrutiny from Miller's IA investigation. This required pure psychological game – exploiting his arrogance and secrets.
Thursday night. The hotel bar was a hushed world of dark leather and polished wood. Sterling arrived promptly for his usual late-evening wind-down. He exuded quiet power, the kind that didn't need to be loud.
I was already seated, embodying "Simone Dubois," a wealthy international consultant. Expensive champagne, a carefully chosen dress, a subtle air of having just stepped off a private jet. I caught his eye, offered a brief, knowing smile. He acknowledged it with a flicker of interest before settling onto a bar stool.
He ordered his drink. I waited, letting him register my presence, the subtle difference I presented from the usual clientele. When he finished his first drink, he glanced my way again.
"Traveling for business?" he asked, his voice smooth, assessing.
"A little of both," I replied, my accent carefully cultivated. "Discovering the city."
"Sterling," he offered, extending a hand.
"Simone," I returned, our hands meeting briefly. His grip was confident, practiced.
Our conversation began, a dance of veiled questions and carefully crafted answers. I steered the topic towards the nuances of international business, the complexities of discretion, the kinds of "situations" that required expert handling. He responded with increasing openness, hinting at his firm's specialized work, his role in managing delicate matters for high-profile clients.
As he moved onto his third high-end whiskey, his reserve loosened. He spoke of the importance of "containment," of protecting reputations, of ensuring "order" for those whose positions were vital. He referenced a network, a brotherhood of sorts, who understood the rules and protected their own. It wasn't just legal work; it was a system of mutual aid, of ensuring consequences were managed, minimized, or redirected.
"It takes a certain kind of understanding," Sterling murmured, leaning closer, his voice confidential. "Not everyone is equipped to handle the... unique challenges of powerful men."
"And some challenges," I prompted softly, "are more sensitive than others. Ones that require absolute discretion. Long-term containment." I watched his eyes. "Situations from years ago, perhaps?"
A flicker of something – caution? – crossed his face. But the alcohol and my carefully built persona held his guard down. "The past is often the most volatile variable," he conceded. "Best kept buried."
"Even when it involves... difficult names?" I pressed, pushing the boundary slightly. "Like Daniel Blackwood?"
His body stiffened. The effect was immediate, cutting through the alcohol. He stared at me, his eyes narrowing, calculating.
"Where did you hear that name?" His voice was sharp, the smoothness gone.
"It came up," I replied, maintaining eye contact. "In relation to the network you mentioned. A problem that was 'contained.'"
He opened his mouth to speak, perhaps to deny, perhaps to threaten. But before he could, I saw it.
Movement.
Outside the bar, through the frosted glass doors leading to the lobby. Figures moving with a specific kind of purpose. Not hotel staff. Too many of them. Moving with the coordinated intensity of law enforcement.
My heart leaped into my throat. Miller. IA. They'd found me. This was the raid. The collision I'd feared.
My mind raced – escape routes, contingencies. I needed to get out. Now.
"Excuse me," I said, my voice tight, standing abruptly. "I need to use the restroom."
Sterling looked confused, annoyed by the sudden interruption, but too startled by the name I'd mentioned to fully react.
I moved quickly, not towards the bar restrooms, but towards the lobby, feigning disorientation to buy myself a moment. I slipped around a corner column, pressing myself into the shadows, my eyes fixed on the entrance.
The doors burst open. Not Miller. Not IA uniforms. These were different. Dark, tactical gear, less conspicuous than a full police raid team, but clearly law enforcement. Special unit patches on their vests. Anti-crime? Federal?
They weren't looking for me. They were looking for Sterling.
"NYPD! Anti-Crime Unit! Michael Sterling! Put your hands where we can see them!"
They swarmed the bar area. Sterling, caught completely off guard, started to rise, bewildered.
"Fraud!" one of the officers yelled, cuffing Sterling roughly. "You've been under investigation for corporate fraud for three months! You're going downtown!"
Fraud. Not the network. Not Freeman. Not my father's past. Sterling had been on another unit's radar for entirely different reasons. My plan, my controlled extraction of information, disrupted by an entirely separate police operation.
Sterling, protesting, caught sight of me by the column. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second. Recognition, betrayal, and fury contorted his face. He knew. He knew who I was, knew I wasn't just "Simone." He might even have guessed the recording device I still clutched.
He opened his mouth, perhaps to call out my name, to expose me in retaliation. But an officer shoved him forward, moving him quickly towards the exit. His chance was gone.
I remained frozen for a moment longer, the adrenaline coursing through me. The target apprehended, but not by me, and not for the crimes I was investigating. My carefully laid trap sprung by another hunter entirely.
As the unit escorted a protesting Sterling out, I melted back into the shadows of the hotel lobby. My escape was easy; in the chaos of the arrest, no one noticed the woman slipping away.
Outside, I walked quickly, blending into the Friday night crowds. Sterling's arrest for fraud was a complication, an unexpected detour. It took a key enabler off the board, but through the legal system, and for a different crime than the ones I cared about. He would face consequences, yes, but the network itself, the deeper corruption, remained largely intact.
And Sterling had seen me. He knew. That was a loose end, a dangerous one. He might talk. To the police, to the network.
The hunt for Sterling was over. But the hunt for the network, and the threat to my own identity, had just become significantly more complicated. The system worked in mysterious ways, sometimes aligning with my goals, sometimes disrupting them. I needed to anticipate these disruptions, to understand the full scope of the forces at play.
My father's name on that list, connected to Sterling and this corrupt network... that was still the core. Sterling's arrest was a setback for my investigation into that specific thread, but it was also confirmation that these men had secrets that attracted official attention.
I pulled out my phone, texting Alvarez: "Freeman's network runs deep. Found a lead tonight, but it was... intercepted. Need to talk."
The night hadn't gone as planned, but it had yielded new information, confirmed dangerous suspicions, and pre
sented fresh threats. The game was evolving. And I needed to adapt faster than ever.