Chapter 4 - The ConfrontationThe interior of the old cold-storage facility smelled of rusted iron, frozen dampness, and old fish scales. Overhead, a single fluorescent bulb flickered with a rhythmic, maddening buzz.
Frederick stepped through the warped wooden service door without hiding his approach. His heavy boots crunched loudly against frozen puddles on the concrete floor.
“Who goes there?!” a sharp voice barked from the shadows near a rusted overhead crane.
A man stepped out into the dim light—tall, wearing a heavy tactical vest over a flannel shirt, holding a short-barreled Remington shotgun pointed directly at Frederick’s chest. It was Vance. His nose was crooked from an old break, and his eyes were darting, jittery with too much caffeine and adrenaline.
Vance stopped dead in his tracks as he recognized the man walking toward him. The shotgun wavered by an inch.
“Castiano?” Vance muttered, a startled laugh escaping his lips. “Well, I'll be damned. The ghost of Mulberry Street decided to pay us a house call. Did you follow us all the way from the airport just to beg for your little crypto files back?”
Frederick didn't stop walking until he was ten feet away. He kept his hands visible, resting loosely at his sides, his face a mask of supreme, unnerving indifference.
“Put the gun down, Vance,” Frederick said evenly. “You look ridiculous pointing iron at someone who just came here to write you a check.”
Vance sneered, adjusting his grip on the shotgun. “A check? You think you can buy your way out of this? The Verhovenskys own this contract, Castiano. We take the woman, we squeeze you for the decryption keys, and your empire collapses by sunrise.”
“The Verhovenskys are sitting in a damp basement in Brighton Beach drinking bad vodka while you freeze your ass off in a municipal dumping ground,” Frederick countered, his voice dripping with cool contempt. “How much are they paying you for this little freelance kidnapping expedition? Fifty thousand? A hundred?”
Vance’s jaw tightened. He didn't answer, which meant Frederick had hit uncomfortably close to the mark.
“I’ll give you half a million,” Frederick said, his voice dropping into a smooth, hypnotic register. “Wire transfer to any offshore account of your choosing, cleared before midnight. Plus clean passports for you and your two boys in the corner.”
From the shadows behind the stacked wooden pallets, two other men shifted nervously, their weapons lowering by degrees.
“And what’s the catch?” Vance demanded, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “What do you want in return?”
“Two things,” Frederick said, stepping forward another pace. “First, you hand over the woman untouched—no bruises, no complications. Second, you walk out of this city tonight and never let me see your faces east of the Mississippi again.”
Vance stared at him for a long, agonizing moment. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead. The tension in the warehouse was thick enough to choke on. Slowly, a greedy, crooked smile began to spread across Vance’s face.
“Half a million...” Vance whispered, lowering the barrel of the shotgun toward the floor. “Damn, Castiano. You always did know how to negotiate.”
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“It’s not negotiation,” Frederick replied softly, his hand inching imperceptibly toward his coat. “It’s mathematics.”
Vance chuckled, turning his head slightly toward the shadows. “Alright, boys, bring her out. Looks like our retirement fund just walked through the front door.”
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