Chapter 17 - The Ghost of MoscowWe didn't wait around for the Swiss authorities to untangle the diplomatic nightmare. Liam’s legal team in Zurich descended on the precinct like a swarm of very expensive bees, securing our release and statements within three hours.
By midnight, we were back on the Gulfstream, cruising at forty thousand feet over the Atlantic Ocean.
I sat in the plush leather seat across from Liam, a secure satellite laptop open on the mahogany table between us. It was time to deal with the devil.
Using the contacts on the encrypted USB drive, Liam’s tech team set up a secure, untraceable video link. The screen flickered for a tense minute before connecting.
The man who appeared on the screen did not look like a mob boss. Viktor Volkov looked like a retired university professor. He wore a simple gray cardigan, and his silver hair was neatly trimmed. He was sitting in a dimly lit library, sipping tea from a delicate porcelain cup.
"Ms. Sterling," Volkov said, his English impeccable, wrapped in a soft, cultured accent. "I must admit, I am surprised. Most people who cross paths with my associates do not survive to make a phone call."
"Your associates are currently sitting in a Swiss federal prison, Mr. Volkov," I replied, my voice steady, betraying none of the exhaustion I felt. "And Thomas Sterling is in a New York holding cell. Your fifty-million-dollar debt collection strategy has failed."
Volkov took a slow sip of his tea. "Thomas was a fool. A useful idiot. But the debt remains, Elena. And I am a man who always collects. The Aspen Lodge will be mine by the end of the year, or your family will find out just how unpleasant the winter can be."
I leaned forward, making sure the camera captured the absolute lack of fear in my eyes.
"Listen to me very carefully, Viktor," I said softly. "I am not Thomas. I do not negotiate with terrorists, and I do not pay the debts of traitors."
I pressed a button on the keyboard. A file transferred across the secure connection.
"Check your messages."
Volkov set his teacup down, his brow furrowing slightly as he opened the file on his end. I watched his eyes scan the documents. It was a sample—just a five-page excerpt of the ledger detailing his cartel laundering operations, along with one photograph of a highly compromised British politician.
The cultured, grandfatherly facade instantly vanished. Volkov's face turned to stone. His eyes darkened into black pits of pure malice.
"Where did you get this?" he demanded, his voice a low, lethal rasp.
"Thomas kept a rainy-day fund," I lied smoothly. "I have the rest. The ledgers, the accounts, the blackmail cache. I have set up a dead-man’s switch. If anything happens to me, my grandfather, Liam Thorne, or any Sterling property, this entire cache is automatically forwarded to Interpol, the FBI, and—most importantly—the Sinaloa Cartel."
A suffocating silence stretched across the satellite connection. Volkov knew exactly what that meant. If the authorities didn't get him, his own cartel clients would tear him apart for exposing their money.
"The fifty-million-dollar debt is forgiven," I stated, delivering the terms of his surrender. "You will never contact anyone in my family again. You will never set foot in a Sterling property. You are a ghost to me, Viktor. Nod if you understand."
Volkov stared at me through the screen, an ocean away, measuring my resolve. He found no weakness.
Slowly, furiously, he nodded.
"You are playing a dangerous game, little girl," he whispered.
"I'm not playing, Viktor," I said. "I own the board."
I severed the connection. The screen went black.
I slumped back in the seat, letting out a breath I felt like I had been holding since Aspen. Liam reached across the table, pouring a generous measure of scotch into a glass and sliding it toward me.
May you like
"To the Queen," Liam toasted quietly, a profound respect in his gray eyes.
I picked up the glass, touching it to his. "To surviving."
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