The water in the marble basin turned pink.
Jason scrubbed his chest with a rough sponge. He scrubbed until his skin was raw, but the stain of the red wine lingered in his pores.
It looked like blood.
He stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The face of Ezra Prentice stared back—soft, weak, terrified.
But the eyes were different. The terror was receding, replaced by a cold, mathematical clarity.
Gates would never stop.
Jason knew the pattern. He had seen it in the hostile takeovers of the 21st century. A blackmailer is like a cancer cell. You can feed it, you can bargain with it, but it will always consume the host.
First, it was the cash. Then it was the shares in Ford. Next week, Gates would want a seat on the board. The week after, he would want Jason to launder money for the mob.
And eventually, when he had sucked Jason dry, he would sell Sarah to Alta just for the fun of it.
There was only one way to stop a cancer. You cut it out.
Jason dropped the sponge into the pink water. It sank like a stone.
"No more deals," Jason whispered.
He dried himself with a thick towel. He walked into his dressing room and pulled on a fresh shirt. Black. A funeral suit.
He walked to his study. He locked the heavy oak door and sat behind his desk.
He didn't have a gun. He had never fired one in his life. He didn't have thugs on his payroll—Gates was his thug.
But he had something better. He had the system.
Jason picked up the telephone receiver.
"Operator," he said, his voice steady. "Get me Police Commissioner Bingham. At his home. Tell him it is urgent. Tell him it concerns the safety of the city."
A series of clicks echoed on the line. Jason waited. He drummed his fingers on the desk.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
The rhythm of anxiety. The rhythm Sarah used.
"Prentice?" A gruff, sleep-heavy voice barked in his ear. "It's midnight. This better be good."
"Commissioner," Jason said. "I apologize for the hour. But my private security has uncovered a credible threat. An anarchist cell."
"Anarchists?" The Commissioner woke up instantly. Ever since President McKinley was shot, the word 'anarchist' was a magic spell that turned policemen into soldiers. "Where?"
"Pier 14," Jason lied smoothly. "They are meeting tonight to plan an attack on the Stock Exchange. They are heavily armed. They are led by a man named Gates."
"Gates? I know the name. A small-time fixer. I didn't know he was a Red."
"He's the ringleader," Jason said. "He's unstable, Commissioner. My sources say he plans to go down fighting. He has explosives."
"Explosives?"
"Dynamite. Stolen from the subway construction."
There was a pause. Jason could hear the Commissioner breathing hard.
"We'll send the riot squad," Bingham said. "We'll surround the pier."
"Be careful, Commissioner," Jason added, twisting the knife. "He is a cop killer. Do not hesitate. If he reaches for his pocket... it's the detonator."
"Understood, Mr. Prentice. We'll handle it. Thank you for your patriotism."
The line went dead.
Jason hung up the phone.
He stared at the device. It was black, heavy, innocent. He had just signed a man's death warrant with a telephone call.
He didn't feel guilt. He felt the cold satisfaction of a balanced ledger.
Now he needed the bait.
Jason grabbed a piece of embossed stationery. He uncapped his fountain pen.
Gates,
I agree to your terms. The Ford shares are yours. 50%. I have the transfer papers ready.
Meet me at Pier 14 at 1:00 AM. It's the only place I can be sure we aren't watched by my wife's people.
Come alone. You win.
- J
He folded the note. He sealed it with wax, pressing his ring into the hot red puddle.
He checked his pocket watch. 12:15 AM.
Gates was still in the house. He was lurking near the kitchen, eating the leftovers of the gala, waiting to torment Sarah.
Jason slipped the note into his pocket. He walked out of the study and down the back stairs.
Outside the kitchen entrance, the fog was rolling in off the Hudson. It swirled around the gas lamps, turning the world into a grey ghost town.
A street urchin was huddled by the gate, hoping for scraps from the party.
Jason walked up to the boy. He held up a silver dollar.
The boy's eyes went wide. It was more money than he had ever seen.
"You see the man in the bad suit by the kitchen door?" Jason asked.
"The ugly one? Smokin' the pipe?"
"That's him. Give him this note. Tell him a gentleman dropped it."
"Yes, sir!"
The boy snatched the dollar and the note. He ran toward the house.
Jason stepped back into the shadows of the garden wall.
He watched.
The boy ran up to Gates. Gates looked annoyed at first, then curious. He took the note. He tore it open.
Jason saw the flare of a match as Gates read the paper.
Then he saw the smile.
It was a greedy, triumphant grin. Gates punched the air. He thought he had just become a millionaire. He thought he had broken the King of Wall Street.
Gates adjusted his fedora. He looked around to make sure no one was watching. Then he started walking briskly toward the street, heading for the waterfront. Heading for Pier 14.
He was whistling.
Jason waited until Gates turned the corner.
Then he signaled for his own carriage.
"Where to, sir?" the driver asked, surprised to see the master out so late.
"Pier 14," Jason said. "Park a block away. Turn off the lamps."
The waterfront was a graveyard of ships.
Masts stuck up into the fog like skeletal fingers. The smell of rotting fish, tar, and salt water hung heavy in the air. The water lapped against the wooden pilings with a wet, slapping sound.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
Jason stood behind a stack of shipping crates on Pier 14. He was hidden in the deepest shadow. The fog was his ally tonight.
He checked his watch. 12:55 AM.
Footsteps echoed on the wooden planks.
Clomp. Clomp. Clomp.
Gates emerged from the fog.
He walked with a swagger. He had a cigarette dangling from his lip. His hand was resting on the bulge in his jacket pocket—his gun.
He stopped in the middle of the pier, under the single, flickering gas lamp.
"Boss?" Gates called out. His voice echoed over the water. "I'm here! Bring the papers!"
Silence.
"Don't be shy, Ezra! We're partners now! Come out and give me my money!"
Gates looked around. He checked his watch. He paced in a small circle.
Jason held his breath. He pressed himself flat against the crate.
1:00 AM.
"Come on," Gates muttered. "Don't play games with me. I'll burn your house down."
A siren wailed in the distance.
Gates froze.
He lifted his head, listening. The siren grew louder. Then another joined it. And another.
A low rumble shook the pier. The sound of heavy wagons thundering over cobblestones.
Gates' eyes widened. He realized something was wrong.
"Prentice?" he yelled. "Prentice!"
Screeching brakes. Shouts.
"SURROUND THE PERIMETER! NO ONE LEAVES!"
Boots hammered on the wood. Dozens of them.
Gates spun around.
Through the fog, he saw shapes moving. Uniforms. The glint of brass buttons. The gleam of riot batons.
"POLICE!" a voice roared. "DROP THE WEAPON!"
Gates panicked.
He was a street rat. His instinct wasn't to surrender. His instinct was to fight.
"He set me up!" Gates screamed. He reached into his pocket for his gun. "That rich bastard set me up!"
"HE'S REACHING!" a cop shouted. "HE'S GOT A BOMB!"
"No!" Gates yelled. "It's just a—"
He pulled the pistol.
It was the last mistake he ever made.
CRACK! CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!
A volley of gunshots tore through the night.
Muzzle flashes lit up the fog like lightning.
Jason watched, unblinking.
He saw Gates jerk violently as the bullets hit him. One in the chest. One in the shoulder. One in the neck.
Gates spun around, his arms flailing. He crashed backward into a pile of empty fish barrels.
He didn't get up.
The shooting stopped.
Silence rushed back in, louder than the gunfire.
The police advanced slowly, weapons drawn.
"Clear!"
"Man down!"
Jason stepped out from behind the crates. He lit a cigarette. The flame illuminated his face. He looked calm. Bored, even.
The Commissioner walked onto the pier, stepping over the body. He saw Jason.
"Mr. Prentice," Bingham said, tipping his hat. "You were right. He drew on us. Mad dog."
Jason walked over to the body.
Gates lay on his back. His eyes were open, staring up at the indifferent sky. His cheap suit was ruined. The red carnation on his lapel was now matched by the blood spreading across his chest.
The photograph of Sarah was sticking out of his pocket, half-stained with blood.
Jason reached down. He plucked the photo from the corpse.
He looked at it one last time. Then he flicked his cigarette onto the body.
"Thank you, Commissioner," Jason said. "The city is safer tonight."
He turned and walked away.
He didn't feel sick. He didn't feel horror.
He felt efficient.
The algorithm had corrected the error.