Chapter 2 - The Weakest Link
The Crimson Lounge was a sanctuary for the city's wealthy, corrupt elite. Dim red lighting, expensive leather booths, and jazz music masked the transactions of illegal contracts and political bribes happening in the shadows. In a private VIP booth near the back, Ryan Graves was pouring himself his fourth shot of high-end single-malt whiskey. His hands were still trembling, his face pale despite the warm ambient lighting.
"Hey, Ryan, relax, man," his older brother, Damian, had told him over the phone just twenty minutes ago. "The old man handled the cops. Carter is just a government employee. Whatâs he gonna do? File a complaint with the Pentagon? Drink your drink and forget about the girl."
But Ryan couldn't forget. He couldn't forget the sound of his sister's ribs cracking under his brothers' boots, or the way her blood had splattered across the white kitchen floor. He had been forced to stand watch at the door, paralyzed by fear of his father's wrath.
Ryan raised the crystal glass to his lips. Before the alcohol could touch his tongue, a heavy, gloved hand clamped down over his mouth from behind, completely cutting off his oxygen.
An immense, unbreakable force slammed his head down onto the mahogany table. The glass shattered, shards of crystal cutting into Ryanâs cheek, but he couldn't scream. A cold, metallic cylinder pressed hard against the base of his skullâthe suppressed barrel of a tactical pistol.
"Make a sound, and your father loses his youngest son tonight," Jackâs voice whispered directly into Ryan's ear, sounding like a demon emerging from the dark.
The two security guards standing at the entrance of the VIP section didn't even notice. Jack had bypassed them through the ventilation corridor, moving like smoke. With a swift, fluid motion, Jack dragged Ryan backward out through the emergency service exit, throwing him into the back of a waiting cargo van before the jazz band could even finish their song.
Ten minutes later, Ryan found himself tied securely to a heavy steel chair inside a dark, damp abandoned warehouse in the industrial sector. A single, harsh halogen light blazed down on him, blinding his eyes. Standing in the shadows just outside the light was Jack, slowly unrolling a canvas wrap filled with sterile military interrogation tools.
"Jack! Please! I didn't touch her!" Ryan sobbed, tears and sweat washing the blood from his cut cheek. "I swear to God! It was Haroldâs idea! He found out Tessa was helping the federal prosecutors build an embezzlement case against our shipping lines! He ordered the brothers to teach her a lesson! I just stood by the door! I didn't hit her!"
Jack walked into the light, his face completely expressionless. He didn't pick up a knife or a pair of pliers. He simply pulled out a tablet and displayed the medical report showing Tessa's broken body.
"Thirty-one strikes, Ryan," Jack said softly. "Every strike represents a fracture. Who delivered the first one?"
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"It was Damian!" Ryan shrieked, his terror overriding any sense of family loyalty. "Damian broke her arm first! Then Marcus and Julian joined in! Harold watched from the armchair, smoking a cigar! Please, Jack, let me go! Iâll testify! Iâll tell the feds everything!"
Jack looked at the pathetic, trembling boy. He didn't feel anger; he felt a profound, mathematical certainty. "You won't testify to the feds, Ryan. Because by the time the feds wake up, there won't be a Graves family left to prosecute."
