Chapter 14 - THE FINANCIAL ARCHITECT
At 4:00 p.m., in the top-floor executive suite of the Robles Tower in downtown Washington D.C., Carmen Robles stood behind a massive floor-to-ceiling glass panel looking out over the city skyline. She was dressed impeccably in a white tailored suit, her dark hair pinned back into an immaculate chignon. Her fingers were heavily decorated with emerald rings that glittered in the afternoon sun.
Sitting on the leather sofa behind her was her son, Javier Robles. His tailored suit jacket was off, his collar unbuttoned, and his hands trembled slightly as he held a glass of scotch.
"She escaped, Mother," Javier rasped, his voice laced with suppressed panic. "She ran through the service stairwell and vanished into the suburban streets before my men could secure the hotel perimeter. If her father gets involved—"
"Quiet, Javier," Carmen snapped without turning around. Her tone was like a whip cracking in an empty room. "Your father was a coward who panicked whenever the federal authorities sent a subpoena. You inherited his weak stomach."
"Colonel Alexander Brooks isn't a federal prosecutor with a briefcase!" Javier shouted, setting his glass down hard on the glass coffee table. "He was the commander of Task Force 77! Do you have any idea what those men did in Colombia? They wiped out three entire enforcement wings in less than two months!"
Carmen turned around slowly, her face an unreadable mask of aristocratic arrogance.
"And where is Colonel Brooks now?" she asked coolly. "He is a retired, broken old man living on a military pension, divorced from his wife, alienated from his daughter. He has no authority, no troops, and no official standing."
"He has his daughter!" Javier retorted. "And she didn't sign the documents!"
Before Carmen could answer, the silver private phone sitting on the executive desk emitted a sharp, double-chime tone.
Carmen walked over calmly, picked up the receiver, and pressed it to her ear. "Speak."
"Carmen Robles," a low, gravelly voice echoed through the speaker. It was a voice that did not ask for permission, a voice that carried the terrifying weight of absolute authority.
Carmen’s eyes narrowed slightly, though her expression remained composed. "Colonel Brooks. I was wondering when you would find the courage to call."
"I don't call to negotiate, Carmen," Alexander said over the encrypted line. "You put your hands on my daughter. You sent thugs to physically assault a member of my family in a hotel room."
"Your daughter was given a very generous offer to join an establishment family," Carmen replied, her voice dropping into a sneer. "She refused to cooperate. She is young, headstrong, and foolish—much like her father."
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"You want the Bogota key," Alexander said, ignoring her insult entirely. "You have until 8:00 p.m. tonight. Bring Javier and your core legal team to the abandoned industrial rail depot at Sector 4, near the river. If you bring more than four security personnel, the drive goes into an incinerator, and I will spend the rest of my life hunting down every bank account your family owns."
The line went dead with a sharp click.
