Chapter 6 - The Price of Betrayal
The heavy submachine gun in Garrett Mallory’s hands didn't shake. That was the most terrifying thing about him. While other men in Hadley’s criminal underworld operated on hot-headed impulse or raw aggression, Garrett looked like a corporate tax attorney who happened to enjoy casual execution.
“You look disappointed, Lincoln,” Garrett purred, taking a slow step out of the elevator car. His tailored suit was immaculate, completely unaffected by the storm raging outside or the violence echoing through the lower floors. His eyes flicked to me for a fraction of a second, registering mild curiosity before dismissing me as collateral damage. “Did you really think a mid-level accountant wouldn't notice you skimming the overseas logistics accounts for the past three years?”
Lincoln didn't flinch. He slowly stepped half an inch in front of me, his body acting as a human shield, though his right hand kept a firm, white-knuckled grip on his automatic pistol.
“You never cared about the logistics accounts, Garrett,” Lincoln said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that cut through the sterile hum of the hallway lighting. “The syndicate in Chicago wanted my chair. You just sold it to them for a seat at their table.”
“Business is evolution, old friend,” Garrett replied smoothly, raising the barrel of his weapon just a fraction higher, aligning it squarely with the center of Lincoln’s chest. “You built Hadley on blood and muscle, Lincoln. But the world has moved on. Men like you are dinosaurs. Men like me know when to sign the paperwork.”
“And what about Bruno?” I blurted out before I could stop myself.
Garrett’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second—just a microscopic twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Ah, the loyal driver. Let’s just say Bruno is currently experiencing a very permanent nap in the basement loading dock. A tragic slip on the oil slick.”
My stomach churned. Bruno, with his gruff warnings and steady hands, was gone.
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“You talk too much, Garrett,” Lincoln whispered, his muscles coiling like a spring beneath his soaked jacket.
“And you bleed too slow,” Garrett countered, tightening his finger on the trigger. “Let’s see if your reflexes are as fast as your reputation.”
