The Confrontation with Marcus

The river current was strong, but Aris kept the boat close to the bank, navigating the ice floes with a grim determination. The fire behind them was fading, but the threat was not. The Syndicate didn't just give up. They regrouped.

Claire sat in the stern, her back to the flames, watching the faces of her family in the dim light. Sarah was shivering uncontrollably, holding the girls as if she could shield them from the cold with her own fear.

"Where are we going?" Sarah whispered.

"To the lawyer," Aris said, his voice carrying over the sound of the water.

"You're the lawyer," Sarah said.

"Not me," Aris said. "My father."

Claire looked up. "Marcus?"

"He's not dead," Aris said. "Not yet. He fell, but he didn't hit the street. He hit the maintenance scaffolding two floors down. I saw the report on the scanner before we ditched the car."

"He survived?" David asked, incredulous.

"He's in the ICU," Aris said. "Under police guard. But that won't stop the Syndicate. They'll get to him. We need to get to him first."

"Why?" Claire asked. "He tried to kill us."

"Because he has the leverage," Aris said. "The hard drive I gave the police? That was just the tip of the iceberg. The real insurance... the detailed records of the Syndicate's operations... Marcus kept those separate. In a place only he knows."

"And you think he'll tell us?"

"I think he'll trade it for his life," Aris said.

They docked the boat near a marina in Hoboken. Aris used the last of Silas's cash to bribe a night watchman for an old van. It smelled of fish and diesel, but it ran.

They drove to the hospital. New York Presbyterian. The building was a fortress of glass and light, surrounded by police cars and news vans.

"We can't just walk in," David said.

"We don't have to," Aris said. "I still have my badge."

He pulled a laminated card from his wallet. *Aris Thorne, Esq.*

"It grants me attorney-client privilege," he said. "Even with a suspect in custody. They can't deny him counsel."

"What about us?" Claire asked.

"You wait here," Aris said. "Keep the engine running. If I'm not back in twenty minutes... leave."

He got out of the van and walked toward the entrance. He straightened his tie, smoothed his hair, and transformed from a fugitive back into a high-powered attorney.

Claire watched him go. She looked at David.

"He's walking into a trap," she said.

"He knows," David said. "But it's the only way."

Inside, Aris navigated the corridors with practiced ease. He bypassed the nurses' station, flashed his badge at the uniform guarding the ICU door, and walked into Room 302.

Marcus Thorne lay in the bed, hooked up to a constellation of machines. His face was swollen, his arm in a cast, but his eyes were open. They tracked Aris as he entered.

"You look terrible," Aris said, closing the door.

"I fell off a building," Marcus rasped. His voice was weak, but the arrogance was still there, simmering under the pain. "What's your excuse?"

"I've been busy cleaning up your mess," Aris said. He pulled a chair to the bedside. "Arthur is dead. Silas is dead. The Syndicate is burning down the city looking for us."

"Good," Marcus said. "Let them burn."

"They want the files, Marcus. The real ones."

Marcus smiled, a grotesque stretching of bruised skin. "Of course they do. That's why I'm still alive. They know if I die without giving the code, the files go public. Dead man's switch."

"Where are they?"

"Safe," Marcus said. "Safer than you."

"They have the girls," Aris lied. "They have David's daughters."

Marcus's smile faltered. Just for a second.

"That's unfortunate."

"It's not unfortunate," Aris said, leaning in. "It's a death sentence. For all of us. If you don't give me the files, they will kill the children. And then they will come here and finish what gravity started."

Marcus looked at the ceiling. He was silent for a long time.

"Arthur made me do it," he whispered.

"What?"

"The skimming," Marcus said. "The laundering. He knew. He always knew. He let me do it so he would have leverage over me. So I could never leave."

"He's dead, Marcus. He can't hurt you."

"But *he* can," Marcus said.

"Who?"

"The man in the photo," Marcus said. "The one Silas was afraid of."

Aris frowned. "What photo?"

"The one Arthur kept in his personal safe. The one of the three men on the boat in '92. Arthur. Silas."

He looked at Aris.

"And your grandfather."

Aris froze. "My grandfather died before I was born."

"That's what we told you," Marcus said. "But the truth is... he didn't die. He became the Syndicate."

The machines beeped, a steady, rhythmic countdown.

"The files," Aris said, his voice cold. "Where are they?"

"In the Cayman account," Marcus said. "Not the money. The metadata. The transaction logs. The comments field in every transfer."

He looked at Aris, his eyes pleading.

"I encoded it. Using a cipher only Arthur knew."

"Arthur is dead."

"But he left a key," Marcus said. "He always left a key. He has photos, Aris. Photos of everything."

Aris stood up. He looked down at his father.

"You're going to prison, Marcus. For the rest of your life."

"I know," Marcus said. He closed his eyes. "It's safer there."

Aris turned to leave.

"Aris," Marcus said.

Aris stopped.

"The cipher," Marcus whispered. "It's not a code. It's a date."

"What date?"

"The day you were born."