Beside Caldwell walked Arthur Vance—Diego’s father—looking pale, nervous, and clutching a heavy leather briefcase.
And behind Arthur Vance, dragged in heavy steel transport cuffs by two mercenaries, were Diego Vance and Paula Sterling.
Diego’s face was bruised, swollen, and stained with dried tears. His designer shirt was torn, his hands shaking in violent, uncontrollable spasms as he looked across the dock and saw me standing in the sunset light.
Paula was weeping in silent, catatonic terror, her cream cashmere sweater ruined with oil and dirt.
“Laura…” Diego whimpered, his voice cracking into a high, ruined rasp that sounded like dry leaves scraping across concrete. “Laura, please! Tell them you brought the files! Uncle Arthur promised he would let us fly to Zurich if you surrendered the ciphers!”
Arthur Caldwell did not look at Diego.
He raised his left hand, and without turning his head, one of the mercenaries drove a steel rifle buttstock directly into Diego’s kidneys.
