Chapter 6 - Webs of Deceit
Back at the Bayside compound, the early morning light was just beginning to streak across the waters of the Long Island Sound.
We spread the recovered ledgers and the master hard drive across the massive oak conference table in my study. Tony, Daniel, and our syndicate’s top forensic accountant, a quiet man named Miller who wore thick glasses and drank endless cups of black coffee, went to work decoding the encrypted files.
I poured myself a glass of bourbon, walking over to the floor-to-ceiling windows to watch the tide roll in.
Bruno was lying on the Persian rug in front of the stone fireplace, his heavy head resting on his paws, sleeping soundly after the night’s raid. But his ears twitched at every distant sound, ever vigilant.
“Boss,” Miller said, adjusting his glasses as he stared at the laptop screen. “You’re not going to believe what’s in these financial records.”
“Try me,” I said, taking a slow sip of bourbon.
“It’s not just drug money,” Miller explained, tapping a few keys to pull up a digital organizational chart. “Harlan wasn't just building a distribution network in Queens. He was building a political machine. Look at these wire transfers going out over the last eighteen months.”
I walked over to the table, looking down at the screen.
Names scrolled past in neat, glowing columns. City councilmen. State assemblymen. A high-ranking official within the NYPD Manhattan North precinct. And, most damning of all, Deputy Chief of Federal Investigations Robert Vance—a man who had publicly sworn a blood oath to clean up corruption in the tri-state area.
“Vance,” I murmured, a cold fury rising in my chest. “The federal golden boy.”
“He’s not just taking payouts,” Tony growled, pointing at a separate spreadsheet. “Look at the property acquisitions. Vance’s family trust owns half the shell companies Harlan uses to launder cash through the Brooklyn shipyards. Vance was protecting Harlan’s shipments from federal wiretaps and DEA raids.”
The puzzle pieces finally locked together.
Victor Harlan wasn't just a rogue rival boss muscling in on my territory. He was a corporate-backed syndicate leader insulated by corrupt politicians, federal bureaucrats, and compromised law enforcement. That was why he had grown so arrogant. That was why he thought he could run over a little girl in a school zone and make her disappear without a whisper.
Because men like Robert Vance had convinced him he was untouchable.
“If we hand this hard drive to the FBI,” Miller suggested cautiously, “we could bring the whole house of cards down legally.”
“The FBI?” I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Miller, Robert Vance is the FBI in this district. If we walk into a federal building with this drive, we’ll be arrested before we reach the elevator, and the evidence will vanish into an incinerator by noon.”
“So how do we play it?” Tony asked. “We can’t fight the federal government and Victor Harlan at the same time.”
“We don't fight them at the same time,” I said, pouring more bourbon into my glass. “We turn them against each other.”
“Explain,” Daniel said, leaning forward.
“Victor Harlan is a narcissist who hates losing control,” I said, pacing slowly around the conference table. “And Robert Vance is a career bureaucrat terrified of scandal. Right now, Harlan thinks he’s safe because Vance is on his payroll. But what happens when Harlan’s primary shipping terminal in Brooklyn suddenly goes up in flames, and a massive cache of federal-level blackmail files lands on the desk of the U.S. Attorney General in Washington?”
Tony’s eyes lit up with a slow, wicked grin. “Harlan will panic. He’ll try to leverage Vance to clean up the mess. And Vance, desperate to protect his own career, will cut Harlan loose to save his own skin.”
“And when they turn on each other,” I concluded, stopping at the head of the table and slamming my hand down on the wood, “we step in and finish them both.”
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Bruno stood up from the rug, stretched his massive legs, let out a deep yawn, and trotted over to my side, wagging his tail slowly as if giving his absolute approval to the plan.
“Get the strike teams ready,” I ordered. “Tonight, we hit the Brooklyn Navy Yard.”
