Chapter 13: Face to Face
The interior of the VIP cabin was a stark contrast to the grimy exterior of the freighter. It was lavishly furnished with mahogany paneling, leather armchairs, and a bank of high-tech monitors displaying encrypted satellite feeds and radar arrays.
Sitting behind a large teak desk, pouring a glass of expensive amber liquid, was Anton Kestrel.
He was an older man, gaunt and sharp-featured, with pale gray eyes that missed absolutely nothing. He wore a tailored suit that cost more than most cars. He didn't look up as Evelyn stepped into the room and locked the heavy door behind her, though he clearly knew she was there.
"I must admit, my security is usually much better," Kestrel said in a smooth, cultured voice, his Russian accent faint. "But then again, it’s not every day a ghost walks onto my ship. Evelyn Thorne. Or should I call you Agent Vance's finest creation?"
Evelyn kept her pistol aimed dead center at his chest. "How do you know who I am, Kestrel?"
Kestrel took a slow sip of his drink, finally looking up at her. "I make it my business to know everything. When Julian, a pathetic, bankrupt fool, managed to stumble into possession of the Belmont Hotel Group, I did some digging. Imagine my surprise when I found a fabricated corporate background masking one of the CIA's most lethal former assets."
"You used Julian because you thought my hotel would provide the perfect blind spot for your handoff."
"Exactly," Kestrel smiled thinly. "The charity gala was perfect. Hundreds of wealthy elite, heavy security, chaos. The DOD drive was supposed to be slipped to my courier, Sasha, right under your nose. I never anticipated Julian panicking and planting it on his own mother. A truly spineless creature."
"The drive is secure. Your hit squad is dead. It's over, Kestrel."
Kestrel chuckled, setting his glass down. "Over? My dear Evelyn, you think far too small. The drone schematics on that drive are valuable, yes. But they were merely a bonus. A test of my new distribution network." He leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "Do you really think I would risk my own neck on a rusty freighter just for some stolen tech?"
Evelyn's eyes narrowed. "What is the real cargo?"
"You are standing on it," Kestrel replied, his gray eyes flashing with malice. "The Iron Star isn't leaving the harbor. The hull is lined with enough military-grade C4 to level Pier 44 and the surrounding three miles of this city's industrial sector. Including the newly constructed naval supply depot next door."
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Evelyn felt a cold spike of adrenaline. The DOD drive was a distraction. This was a domestic terror attack.
Kestrel reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sleek, black detonator, his thumb resting dangerously close to the switch. "If you shoot me, my grip relaxes, and the dead-man's switch triggers the explosives. If you don't shoot me... well, we both die in exactly five minutes when the timer expires anyway. Checkmate, Agent."
