Stan Edgar’s office was in the southeast corner of the top floor of Vought Tower.
It was an absurdly large circular room, with floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides overlooking all of Manhattan.
At that mont, New York’s nightscape spread out below like a sea of light. The lights of countless office buildings reflected on the Hudson River, swaying slowly with the ripples.
Edgar sat behind an enormous solid-wood desk, holding a glass of whiskey. The ice cubes inside clinked softly against the glass.
The next mont, the entire office door was torn clean out of its fra.
The hand holding Edgar’s glass did not tremble.
He did not even stand. He rely lifted his eyes slightly, looking at the blond man in the doorway, clothes stained with blood and a wound still visible on his left cheek, with the sa calm gaze he used to review financial statents.
"Holander."
He called his na in an even tone.
"You’re staining my carpet."
Holander stood in the doorway, his chest heaving violently.
Facing Edgar, he hesitated.
It was a naless fear that had followed him since childhood.
Blood dripped steadily from the fingers of Holander’s right hand, staining the carpet.
Deep in Holander’s eyes, two visible sparks of light burned in his pupils. A sign that his laser eyes were about to erupt.
The faint, trembling red glow flickered at the edges of his irises, making the temperature in the office seem to rise by several degrees.
"Soldier Boy."
He spoke through clenched teeth.
"You sold him to the Russians. You locked him in a lab for forty years, then fed so story about him dying on a mission.
You made stand in silence before his headstone. You made bow to his old uniform. You made say in an interview that ’Soldier Boy was a great hero.’
And you knew where he was the entire ti.
You knew he was strapped to an operating table, being tortured over and over.
You even knew he was my father, and you still did it!"
His voice rose higher and higher, the final words almost a roar.
The glass walls of the office trembled in the wake of his shout, letting out a low, continuous hum, as if the entire building were shaking.
Edgar set the whiskey glass on the desk, leaned forward slightly, and looked at Holander without a trace of fear or panic.
"Yes," he said. "And then?"
Holander’s pupils suddenly contracted.
He took a step forward, his boots crunching over the broken pieces of the door scattered across the floor.
Then Holander kept closing in on Edgar.
Less than three steps separated them.
All he needed was a twitch of his finger, or a glance, and Edgar would be dead.
Kill Edgar.
The thought surfaced in Holander’s mind.
Kill this bastard sitting behind his desk, staring at him with that utterly indifferent expression.
He could do it.
In less than the blink of an eye, there would be one more headless corpse in this office.
But his hand stopped.
Not only because of that fear ingrained in him since birth.
Because another sentence was echoing in his head.
"After you find out the truth, don’t do anything impulsive. Show the report to Edgar. He’ll know how to contact ."
Don’t be impulsive.
That was the tone a father used when speaking to his son.
Perhaps Soldier Boy wanted to take revenge with his own hands.
Holander’s breathing grew heavier.
Edgar watched it all, his expression unchanged.
He even picked up his whiskey glass again and took a sip.
But his fingers paused slightly on the rim of the glass.
"It seems he’s told you quite a lot."
Edgar’s voice remained steady.
"So, what do you want now? Everything is still negotiable, isn’t it?"
Though Edgar still did not know how Soldier Boy had learned all of this.
Could it have been through a forr teammate?
Holander placed his bloodstained hand on Edgar’s sofa, the motion stiff and rough.
He raised his head and looked at Edgar. The murderous intent in those glowing red eyes had not fully faded.
"Soldier Boy wants you to contact him."
Holander’s voice was hoarse.
After saying that, he turned and walked out of the office.
...
Early the next morning.
Benjamin was brushing his teeth when his phone rang.
Sunlight from six-thirty in the morning stread through the apartnt window.
No one had co looking for trouble since yesterday evening.
As for A-Train, Vought’s PR had already gone to work.
At the ti, he had been chasing...
...
The screen lit up, an unfamiliar number with no na flashing on it.
Benjamin stared at the string of digits for two seconds, spat out the foam in his mouth, and pressed answer.
"Soldier Boy."
The voice on the other end was steady, carrying the polished smoothness of a man long used to business dealings.
"This is Stan Edgar."
Benjamin wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder, turned on the faucet, and rinsed his toothbrush.
The sound of running water filled the room for a mont before he replied unhurriedly,
"I know who you are."
"We need to talk."
Edgar’s voice sounded again.
"Talk about what? How I’m going to kill you, tear your body into pieces, and feed it to the dogs?"
Edgar’s tone did not change.
"The situation has changed. You and I both know that once certain things are exposed, there is no going back.
Vought can handle one Holander. But a Holander carrying hatred, plus his father, even Vought can’t withstand that."
Benjamin leaned against the sink and wiped the corner of his mouth with a towel.
He said nothing, waiting for Edgar to lay his cards on the table.
"That’s your problem, isn’t it? Your goddamn Vought should’ve gone down a long ti ago."
"But before that happens, you and Holander will both be ruined. Your fine son cares about that. At least for now, Vought controls public opinion across the entire country..."
"Are you threatening ?"
Benjamin gave a cold snort.
"If Holander and I are convicted of treason because of Vought, or destroyed by public opinion in so other way, then maybe I’ll take my wimpy son and turn all of New York into a place that makes him less of a wimp.
No, maybe I’ll destroy the entire United States with him, then take him to that mysterious Eastern superpower.
Oh, right. I don’t care if you’re recording this. You should know that once the gloves co off, who loses the most?
Holander and I can simply live sowhere else. You, Vought, and the United States will disappear."
Benjamin’s voice was filled with anger.
"Of course, Benjamin. Calm down. That’s why I suggest we speak in person."
Edgar said,
"Not as enemies, but as two adults who need to solve the sa problem. You choose the place, and you choose the ti. I’m sure we can reach an agreent, can’t we?"
Benjamin draped the towel over his shoulder and glanced at the face in the mirror, that face the Queen of England had once... The corner of his mouth curved slightly.
"This afternoon, then," he said. "The café downstairs from my place. Co alone, unless you’re not worried I’ll fuck you up."
He hung up, tossed the phone back beside the sink, and continued brushing his teeth.
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