The Cold War

I was a prisoner.

It was a very nice prison. Five-star service, antique furniture, a private plunge pool. But a prison nonetheless.

"Max, your phone."

Catalina held out her hand. We were sitting at breakfast on the patio.

"Why?" I asked, not looking up from my eggs.

"Because you are obsessed," she said. "You check it every five minutes. It’s manic behavior. Dr. Aris suggested a digital detox during your... episodes."

"I'm not having an episode, Cata."

"You disappeared for three days," she said calmly. "You were living in a tenement with a rooster. You were digging mud in the street. That is not sanity, Max. That is a breakdown."

She wiggled her fingers. "The phone. And the passport. I'll keep them in the safe. So you don't lose them again."

I looked at her. I realized then that she actually believed her own lie. She needed me to be crazy. If I was crazy, she was the long-suffering wife taking care of me. If I was sane, she was a criminal.

I handed her the phone. I handed her the passport.

"Good boy," she said, dropping them into her purse. "Now, I have meetings with the lawyers all day. You stay here. Swim. Read. Relax. The security guard at the gate has been instructed not to let you wander. For your own safety."

She kissed me on the forehead. It felt like a brand.

"I'll be back for dinner."

She left.

The heavy wooden gate clicked shut.

I waited five minutes. Then ten.

I walked to the gate. The guard, a large man named Marco, smiled apologetically.

"No exit, Mr. DeLuca. Señora’s orders."

"Right," I said. "Safety first."

I walked back to the suite. I went into the bathroom and turned on the shower to create noise.

Then, I walked to the balcony that overlooked the back alley. It was a fifteen-foot drop.

"Psst. Patrón."

I looked down.

Tony was crouching behind a dumpster, wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses. He looked like a budget spy.

"Tony," I whispered. "Did you bring it?"

"Catch," Tony whispered.

He tossed a small burner phone up. I caught it.

"Pre-paid," Tony hissed. "Untraceable. And I loaded the files you asked for. The Shenzhen manifests."

"Good. What about the port?"

"Yulissa is working on it," Tony said. "She has a cousin in customs. But Max... Sofía is pissed. Like, nuclear level. Yulissa says she threw out the coffee maker you fixed."

I winced. "I deserve that."

"Yeah, you kinda do," Tony agreed. "But listen. Cata is moving the money tonight. I saw the traffic. She’s liquidating the 'Consulting' accounts. She’s getting ready to run, Max. Or to cut you loose."

"She’s not running," I said grimly. "She’s waiting for the Gala on Friday. She wants to take the bow, collect the final check from the investors, and then fly out."

"So what do we do?"

"We crash the Gala," I said. "But we need proof. Real proof. Not just a manifest."

"The Port Authority database?" Tony asked.

"Harder," I said. "I need the physical sample. I need a piece of that fake marble from the site, and I need the chemical analysis report proving it’s flammable."

"Flammable?" Tony’s eyes went wide.

"If that hotel catches fire," I said, "it won't just collapse. It will melt. It’s a death trap, Tony. We aren't just proving fraud anymore. We’re preventing a massacre."

I looked at the burner phone in my hand.

"I need you to get a message to Sofía."

"She won't read it, bro."

"Tell her it’s not a love letter," I said. "Tell her it’s a job offer. I need a printer. I need someone to print the evidence on giant display boards."

"Display boards?"

"If I'm going to expose Catalina," I said, looking at the high walls of my prison. "I'm not going to do it in a courtroom. I'm going to do it at the Gala. In front of Minister Castillo. In front of the press. In front of everyone."

"That’s suicide," Tony whispered.

"No," I smiled, a cold, sharp smile. "That’s demolition."

"Go," I waved him off. "Before Marco sees you."

Tony vanished into the alley.

I sat down on the balcony floor, hidden from view. I dialed the only number I had memorized.

It rang three times.

"Imprenta Mercedes," a voice answered. Sharp. Professional. Cold.

"Don't hang up," I said.

Silence.

"I'm listening," Sofía said. "You have ten seconds."

"I'm burning it down, Sofía," I said. "The hotel. The firm. The marriage. All of it. But I need your ink."

There was a pause. I could hear the hum of the machines in the background.

"I charge double for rush jobs," she said.

"Put it on my tab," I said.

She hung up.

I closed the burner phone.

The Cold War was over. The hot war had just begun.