Kostic continues smoothly. “I have no quarrel with Guardian HRS or Cerberus. My business is with Reynolds alone.” His cold gaze fixes on me. “And now, with you.”
My spine stiffens. “With me?”
“Yes.” Kostic turns his full attention to me. “The rather extensive documentation of operations involving me and your late husband.”
My mouth goes dry. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Please.” Kostic looks genuinely disappointed. “Let’s not insult each other’s intelligence. The flash drive. The offshore accounts. The meetings in Belgrade and Zurich.”
I say nothing, mind racing. If Kostic knows about the evidence, knows he’s implicated...
“The files you gathered,” he continues, “are they comprehensive?”
An unexpected question. I hesitate, uncertain where this is leading.
“Yes,” I finally admit. “Three years of documentation. Every meeting. Every transaction.”
Kostic nods thoughtfully. “And my organization? We feature prominently?”
“Yes. Extensively.” I meet his gaze steadily.
His expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his eyes—a cold calculation moving behind them like shadow beneath ice. He takes a moment, considering.
“I hear Guardian HRS technology is especially savvy,” he says. “Particularly when it comes to digital manipulation.”
Mason tenses beside me. “What are you suggesting?”
“I wish to make a deal.” Kostic straightens his already immaculate tie.
“No deal,” Mason says immediately, voice hard.
I place a hand on his arm. “What do you have in mind?”
Kostic smiles—not the practiced social expression, but something genuine and therefore more frightening.
“Simple,” he says, spreading his hands. “Remove my organization from your files. Eliminate all references to our operations. Do that, and we have no quarrel.” He gestures to Steffan’s body. “With Judge Reynolds dead, there will be no trial. No testimony. The corruption in his network can still be exposed without—certain complications.”
“You want us to tamper with evidence,” Mason states flatly.
“I want a business arrangement,” Kostic corrects. “You get what you need—the dissolution of Reynolds’s network. I get what I need—continued operational security.”
“And if we refuse?” I ask.
Kostic doesn’t answer directly. Instead, he looks out the window where the sporadic gunfire has completely ceased. “Your team fought admirably. Professional. Disciplined. But significantly outnumbered.” His eyes return to mine. “I would prefer that our organizations maintain a respectful distance rather than an—antagonistic relationship.”
The threat is clear without being explicit.
“Mason,” I say quietly. “Reynolds is gone. The immediate threat is neutralized.”
“He’s a weapons dealer, Willow,” Mason replies, voice low. “Responsible for arming terrorists, cartels?—”
“And I will continue those operations with or without your interference,” Kostic interjects smoothly. “The only question is whether we part ways peacefully today or become permanent adversaries.”
I weigh the options quickly. The evidence we have could implicate dozens of corrupt officials, judges, and lawenforcement. We could still dismantle Reynolds’s network without Kostic’s organization being mentioned.
“If we do this,” I say slowly, “you guarantee you’ll never come after us. Never interfere with the cases against Reynolds’s other associates.”
“You have my word.” Kostic places a hand over his heart, the gesture somehow not appearing theatrical despite its formality. “Remove my organization from your files, and we have no reason to ever speak again.”
