Dance With The Devil

The Silent Ransom

Victor Moretti did not scream. He was too rich for screaming.

He sat in his penthouse office, the darkness of the city-wide blackout pressing against the floor-to-ceiling glass. The only light came from the emergency red glow of the backup generators.

"Find him," Victor whispered to the shadow standing in the corner of his office. "I don't care if you have to burn every slum in this city. I want Zain Vardis’s head on my desk before the sun rises."

"The hitmen are already on the street, sir," the shadow replied. It was Graves, Victor’s personal enforcer. "But there’s a problem. The police are swarming the docks. Someone leaked the manifest for the 'Midnight Star'."

Victor’s heart skipped a beat. The Midnight Star wasn't carrying electronics or luxury cars. It was carrying the liquid assets—the untraceable gold—that kept his empire liquid.

"The manifest is encrypted with a military-grade code," Victor hissed. "Nobody could have leaked it."

Suddenly, the massive television on the wall flickered to life. It didn't show the news. It showed a grainy, black-and-white feed of the docks.

And standing right in front of the Midnight Star’s main shipping container was Zain Vardis. He was looking directly into the security camera, holding a cup of steaming coffee.

"Good evening, Victor," Zain’s voice came through the high-end speakers, clear as a bell. "I hope the darkness isn't too uncomfortable. I find it helps one focus on what truly matters."

Victor lunged for the screen. "You’re dead! Do you hear me? You’re a dead man!"

"You've been saying that for six months, Victor. Your vocabulary is as stagnant as your morals," Zain said, taking a slow sip of coffee. "I’m not here to talk. I’m here to give you a choice. Behind this container is a fleet of police trucks. Behind me is a button that will broadcast the contents of this ship to every major news outlet in the hemisphere."

Zain leaned closer to the camera. His eyes were cold, reflecting the red emergency lights of the dock.

"You have ten minutes to call off the bounty on my head and transfer the ownership of the Moretti Plaza to a 'Vance Charitable Trust.' If you don't, the world will see exactly how you’ve been funding your 'Businessman of the Year' lifestyle."

"You're bluffing!" Victor roared. "You wouldn't destroy that gold. It’s worth billions!"

"Money is just paper and metal, Victor," Zain said, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly soft whisper. "I’ve lived in a grave. I know what things are actually worth. Ten minutes. The clock isn't ticking, Victor. It's counting down your funeral."

The screen went black.

In the passenger seat of a car parked three blocks away, Elena Vance gripped the dashboard so hard her knuckles were white. She was listening to the entire exchange through the earpiece Zain had given her.

"You're insane," she whispered into the mic. "He’s going to send Graves. Graves doesn't negotiate. He kills."

"I know," Zain’s voice came back through the comms. He sounded disturbingly calm. "That’s why I need you to do your job, Elena. The police are five minutes away. When they arrive, don't look for the gold. Look for the man in the charcoal suit who surrendered without a fight."

"Wait—surrendered? Zain, what are you—"

"The only way to enter the fortress is to be taken in as a prisoner," Zain interrupted. "See you in the interrogation room, Prosecutor. Don't be late. I hate waiting for a dance to start."

The comms went silent. Elena looked out the window and saw the first flicker of blue and red lights approaching the harbor.

Zain wasn't running. He was walking right into the center of the trap—because he was the one who had set it.