Chapter 8 - THE AUDITORGraham did not try to force the door.
He simply waited.
That made Delaney more nervous.
Mason crouched beside her.
“We can't stay here.”
“Exit?”
“Tunnel behind the archive.”
“Where does it lead?”
“Old courthouse tunnel.”
“Perfect.”
Ronan looked at her.
“Do we have time?”
A voice came from the other side.
“You have exactly four minutes.”
Graham.
Then silence.
Delaney opened the archive map.
A passage ran beneath the building.
They moved.
The tunnel was narrow and wet.
Mason led.
Tyler followed.
Ronan stayed between Mason and Delaney.
Suddenly Mason stopped.
“Wait.”
He pointed at a cable.
A tripwire.
Delaney crouched.
“Explosive?”
“No.”
Mason cut it.
A red light turned green.
He looked sick.
“They want us moving.”
“What?”
“The exits.”
Delaney understood.
The tunnel wasn't a way out.
It was a funnel.
They were being pushed somewhere.
They reached the end.
A steel door opened into an underground parking garage.
Three vehicles waited.
One black SUV.
One police cruiser.
One limousine.
Delaney stared at the limousine.
The door opened.
Graham stepped out.
Perfect suit.
Silver hair.
Calm smile.
“You've grown.”
Delaney raised her weapon.
“Stay where you are.”
Graham laughed.
“I was wondering when you'd point that at me.”
“You killed my father.”
“No.”
“You recorded it.”
“I witnessed it.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
Graham's face hardened.
“Witnesses can be victims too.”
Mason moved forward.
“Where's Ronan's money?”
Graham looked at him.
“You still think this is about money.”
“What else is it?”
“Power.”
Graham approached slowly.
“Your father discovered that money was only the surface.”
He looked at Delaney.
“The people paying us weren't buying silence.”
“They were buying obedience.”
“To whom?”
Graham smiled.
“To everyone.”
He pulled out a phone.
The screen displayed thousands of transactions.
Judges.
Mayors.
Sheriffs.
Federal prosecutors.
Corporations.
Political committees.
Graham turned the phone toward Delaney.
“This is the machine.”
Delaney looked.
Then saw one transaction.
Twenty-six million dollars.
Recipient:
VOSS FOUNDATION TRUST
Her breath caught.
“My father's account.”
Graham nodded.
“He created it.”
“For what?”
“To expose everyone.”
“Then why didn't he?”
“Because he realized something.”
“What?”
“They had infiltrated the investigators too.”
Delaney stepped closer.
“Who ordered his murder?”
Graham's smile disappeared.
“Not me.”
“Then who?”
Graham looked at Ronan.
“Ask him.”
Ronan froze.
Delaney turned.
“What?”
Graham continued.
“Your brother remembers.”
Ronan shook his head.
“I was a kid.”
“You were in the room.”
“No.”
“You saw your father.”
“No!”
Ronan's voice broke.
“He was dying!”
Delaney moved beside him.
“Ronan, what do you remember?”
He covered his face.
Then whispered:
“Someone was singing.”
Delaney stared.
“Singing?”
“A song Dad used to play.”
“What song?”
Ronan looked at Graham.
“Uncle Graham was singing it.”
Graham closed his eyes.
“That's impossible.”
Ronan pointed.
“You were there.”
Graham's face went white.
Mason suddenly looked toward the garage entrance.
Headlights appeared.
Multiple vehicles.
Dozens.
He whispered:
“We're surrounded.”
Graham looked up.
For the first time, he looked afraid.
Then the limousine doors behind him opened.
A man stepped out.
Older.
Tall.
Walking with a cane.
Everyone went silent.
Graham lowered his head.
“Sir.”
Delaney stared.
The man looked at her.
Then smiled.
“I suppose it's time you met me.”
He tapped his cane on the floor.
“My name is Harlon Quill.”
Delaney's blood froze.
Behind her, the real Quill stepped forward.
“This isn't possible.”
The older man smiled.
“You've been asking the wrong question.”
The two Quills stood facing each other.
And Delaney finally understood.
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There was no conspiracy behind the badge.
There was a dynasty.
