Chapter 5 - The North Garage
Beneath the north garage of the Reyes estate lay a subterranean bunker that had been constructed during the height of the border wars in the late 1990s. It was soundproof, climate-controlled, and entirely isolated from the rest of the property.
Inside a bare concrete cell illuminated by a harsh halogen light, Victor Lane sat tied to a heavy steel chair.
His face was bruised from the blow Damon had dealt him in the conference room, his expensive silk suit crumpled and ruined.
The heavy steel door swung open.
Damon stepped inside, accompanied by Marcus. Damon carried a heavy leather binder under his arm—the ledger Selena had found hidden behind the library painting.
Damon set the binder on a steel table in front of Victor, pulled up a folding chair, and sat down.
"You're making a mistake, Damon," Victor rasped, his voice dry and hoarse. "You think this is just about me? You think I acted alone?"
"I know you didn't act alone, Victor," Damon said calmly, pulling a fountain pen from his pocket. "I've spent the last two hours reviewing the wire transfers in this book. You didn't just sell out the Phoenix shipping routes. You sold the coordinates of my father's convoy six years ago in Tucson."
Victor’s eyes widened slightly, then a bitter, cold smile broke across his bloodied lips. "Your father was old, Damon. He was soft! He wanted to turn the Reyes empire into a legitimate real estate firm! He was going to walk away from forty million dollars a year in cartel protection fees! He was ruining everything we built!"
"He was protecting his family," Damon corrected softly.
"Family?!" Victor spat, leaning forward as far as the ropes allowed. "Your father was weak! And you're just like him! Look at you! You're letting a maid and her bastard child dictate how you run this territory! You stopped an executive acquisition meeting because a three-year-old dragged a plastic toy into your conference room!"
Damon leaned back in his chair, staring at the older man with complete, terrifying detachment.
"That three-year-old showed more loyalty in thirty seconds than you showed in thirty years, Victor," Damon said.
He opened the ledger, turning to a page marked with financial signatures.
"You gave the Valdes syndicate the security codes for our west perimeter," Damon continued. "They were planning an armed assault on this house tonight at midnight. They were going to kill me, execute my lieutenants, and hand the Southwestern routes to Carlos Valdes."
Victor sneered. "Carlos has two hundred men staged across the border in Nogales right now. Even if you hold me here, you can't stop what's coming at midnight."
Damon looked at his watch. The glowing hands read 4:15 p.m.
"Carlos Valdes isn't in Nogales, Victor," Damon said smoothly.
Victor’s smirk flickered. "What?"
"Two hours ago, while Dr. Mercer was treating Selena," Damon said, "I sent Marcus’s strike team to the private airfield in Scottsdale. We intercepted Carlos’s private jet as it landed from Guadalajara."
Damon pulled his phone from his pocket, tapping the screen, and turned it toward Victor.
On the screen was a photograph of Carlos Valdes—the feared head of the Valdes syndicate—sitting in the back of an unmarked van, heavily zip-tied, his face pale with shock.
Victor’s breath hitched in his throat. His skin went gray. "How... how did you know he was flying into Scottsdale?"
"Because Selena didn't just see your ledger behind the painting, Victor," Damon said, his voice dropping into a low, lethal purr. "She saw the flight itinerary you printed out forty-five minutes before my board meeting started. She memorized the tail number while you were in the hallway."
Victor stared at the phone screen, his entire body trembling as the realization of his complete failure crashed down upon him.
"You thought she was just a maid," Damon whispered, leaning in close until his face was inches from Victor’s. "You thought she was a helpless girl you could intimidate and beat into silence. But she was smarter than you. Her child was braver than you. And now, Victor... you have run out of people to betray."
Damon stood up, closing the leather binder.
"Marcus," Damon commanded.
"Sir?"
"Transfer Victor to the federal prosecutors in Los Angeles. Give them the unredacted ledgers, the offshore bank accounts, and the physical evidence linking him to the Valdes syndicate murders."
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Victor blinked in absolute shock. "You're... you're giving me to the Feds?"
Damon looked at the old man with cold disgust. "A bullet is too quick for a man who betrayed my father. You are going to spend the rest of your natural life in a six-by-eight concrete cell in Florence, Arizona. And every day, you will remember that your entire empire was brought down by a three-year-old girl with a pink suitcase."
