Page 67 of The Bodyguard

“Did I say Wexler, Nick?” Mitch said, looking to the other Cerberus operative.

“No, Mitch, I don’t believe you did, but it seems Mr. Crane may have information we need,” replied Nick before staring Crane down.

“This is about Donato,” Mitch interrupted. “About the itinerary you sold. The fake threats you manufactured. The shooter you hired.”

Crane flinched. A millimeter.

Nick saw it too. “So it was a scare tactic,” Nick said. “Not a warning. That’s good to know. I’d hate to think you guys can’t even hire a shooter who can hit the target. A pressure move.”

“I want names,” Mitch said. “Everyone on your PAC pipeline. Every dollar that came through. You tell me who green-lit the hit, or I start making the kind of mess you can’t walk away from.”

Crane’s jaw twitched. “You think I’m afraid of you?”

“No,” Mitch said, slowly. “I think you’re too smug and too stupid to be afraid of me. But you should be afraid of what happens after me.”

Crane laughed. “You think this scares me? This diner, your quiet threats, the muscle act…”

Before he could finish, Nick moved.

He didn’t lunge. He didn’t growl. He smiled—and then flicked his hand out under the table, catching Crane by the wrist so fast and so tight the man’s eyes bulged.

“No one’s acting,” Nick said, voice low and calm. “We just don’t do screaming here. Elmo would get upset. It’s bad for business.”

Crane yanked his arm back, rattled now. He looked around and realized no one in the diner had moved. Because no one would. Not until the blood hit the tile.

That’s when Elmo’s people stepped in.

One of the busboys—a six-foot-five mountain named Marco, who doubled as backroom security—walked over slowly, towel over one shoulder, eyes unreadable. “Gentlemen,” he said. “We don’t do this here.”

Mitch raised his hands. “No problem.”

Marco stared at Nick, who released Crane’s wrist with exaggerated slowness. Then Marco turned to Crane. “You need another minute?”

Crane’s voice came tight. “No. I’m leaving.”

Mitch stood first. “You forgot your phone.”

He handed it to Crane, the device sitting in his palm like a peace offering. Crane snatched it and turned to leave, muttering something under his breath. The bell jingled. The door shut behind him.

Nick waited three seconds before asking, “You got it?”

Mitch held up his phone and turned the screen. “Cloned his on contact.”

Nick exhaled. “Nice trick.”

“We’re Cerberus,” Mitch said, sliding back into the booth and opening his laptop. “I don’t do magic. I do extraction.”

Nick sat down beside him as the terminal on Mitch’s screen decrypted Crane’s stolen data. Lines of financial logs, payment messages, and location metadata unfurled like a confession.

“Here,” Mitch said, pointing. “That’s her itinerary. Every move, every route. Sold two days before the museum gala. And this—” he tapped a different column, “—is the payout ledger. Halstrom’s account to Crane. Crane to Lennox. And at the bottom—Paragon’s routing number. The shell company’s clean, but the destination account links to an offshore Cayman asset. Wexler’s.”

Nick let out a long breath. “He’s not just playing dirty. He’s paying for blood.”

Mitch’s jaw tightened. “Not anymore.”

Because now he had proof. Now, the gloves were off. And if Wexler wanted war?

Mitch was done playing defense.

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