Chapter 7
I stepped inside. Nina was perched on the bed, glued to her cartoons. When she spotted me, she gave me a little wave.
"Sir!" she chirped.
I gave her a nod and looked over at Clara.
"Ms. Lynn, before noon, someone might show up wanting a word with me," I said.
"The Zane family?" Clara asked.
"Yeah," I replied.
Clara's face went a shade paler.
"So, what exactly are you planning to say to them?" she asked.
"I'm going to make them an offer they can't refuse," I said.
"What kind of offer?" she asked.
I didn't answer.
"Just stay in the room with Nina. No matter what happens outside, don't come out," I said.
Clara looked at me, her lips moved like she wanted to ask more, but in the end, she just nodded.
At 11:20, my phone rang.
"Mr. Zane will see you," Ethan said, his voice icy. "Family waiting room at the end of the twelfth floor. Ten minutes."
"Alright," I replied.
I hung up and stepped out of the room.
At the end of the hallway, there was a family waiting room—almost always empty.
I walked in, pushed the door open. Inside, there was a table, a few chairs, and a TV hanging on the wall.
I took a seat on one side of the table and waited.
Five minutes later, the door swung open.
It wasn't Harlan.
It was Ethan, with four guys in black behind him.
They shut the door behind them, and the four guys took up positions in each corner of the room. Ethan sat down across from me.
"He won't be coming himself," Ethan said, adjusting his glasses. "Whatever you want to say, say it to me."
"I told you, I want to see Harlan," I said.
"You don't deserve it," Ethan shot back.
I just stared at him, saying nothing.
Then I pulled out my phone, opened a file, and turned the screen toward him.
Ethan glanced down, and his face went pale in an instant.
It was a bank transfer record—an enormous sum, wired to an offshore account.
And the sender's name? Harlan.
"This is the payout Harlan sent to Smith three years ago," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Before Smith skipped town, Harlan was his biggest partner.
"If the authorities ever get their hands on this, his 1.5 billion dollar deal is dead in the water—and he'll be going down with it."
Ethan's face went from pale to livid, then turned red with rage.
He shot to his feet, his chair toppling over behind him.
"Where did you get this?" he demanded.
"Doesn't matter," I said, slipping my phone back into my pocket. "What matters is, I want to see Harlan. Now."
Ethan stared at me for ten seconds, his chest heaving with every breath.
Then he pulled out his phone, walked over to the corner, and made a call, keeping his voice low.
I couldn't make out what he was saying, but his tone went from businesslike to downright begging.
Two minutes later, he came back.
"Harlan will be here in twenty minutes," he said.
I nodded.
"Tell your men to wait outside," I said.
"No way," Ethan shot back.
"Then let Harlan make the call," I said.
Ethan gritted his teeth and didn't say another word.
Twenty minutes later, the door swung open.
An older man stepped inside.
He was in his early sixties, not very tall, dressed in a dark gray cashmere coat. His hair was silver and perfectly groomed.
His face was impassive, but his eyes were razor-sharp—like blades.
Harlan.
He had two guys with him—Blake Bell, and a middle-aged man I'd never seen before, gold-rimmed glasses, briefcase in hand, who definitely looked like a lawyer.
Harlan took a seat across from me and sized me up.
"You're the delivery guy?" he asked.
"Yeah," I replied.
"You've got something of Smith's," he said.
"Yeah," I replied.
Harlan's eyes narrowed.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"It's simple," I said, staring him down. "From now on, the Zane family stays away from Clara and her daughter. Don't even think about touching their bone marrow, and not a single hair on their heads gets messed with."
Harlan didn't say a word.
He stared at me like I was some clueless ant that didn't know how tiny it really was.
After a while, he cracked a smile.
"Kid, do you have any idea who you're trying to bargain with?" he said.
"Yeah, I know," I replied.
"Then you should know I've got a hundred ways to turn whatever you've got into nothing but scrap paper," he said.
"You can try," I said coolly.
I took out my phone and flashed it in front of him.
"This file is set on a timer. If I don't cancel it myself by six o'clock tonight, it'll automatically get sent to three places: the authorities' tip line, a provincial news outlet's tip-off email, and the personal inbox of the project lead for your big deal next week."
Harlan's smile disappeared.