Page 196 of Sinful Blaze

Smithson barks a laugh. “Too expensive! Funny. Very funny. Now, Mr. Chekhov, let’s get down to business. You’ve been informed of why you’re here, yes?”

“You’re going to have to remind me. Between the blinding lights, the loud sirens, and the army of high school dropouts invading my workplace, it’s all kind of fuzzy.”

“That does sound like a bit much, doesn’t it?” Smithson scrunches his nose as he flips through the dossier he brought to the table. “Still, I think a man of your experience can understand the precaution, considering the accusations against you.” He looks me in the eyes, dead serious. “Gunrunning is nothing to take lightly, don’t you agree?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Really.” He flips through the pages, glancing up at me a few times. “So you have no idea why anyone would accuse you of… let’s see… illegally smuggling, dealing, and bartering weapons and ammunition?”

“I have plenty of ideas as to why anyone would accuse me of pretty much anything. It’s called ‘competition,’ Agent Smithson?—”

“Special Agent.”

Go fuck yourself in the ass. “Special Agent Smithson. I have many competitors. I have many corporate enemies. What I don’t know is why you’re wasting your time and valuable resources believing them.”

Smithson scoffs. “So you’re going to sit here and tell me that the mountain of evidence I’m sitting on doesn’t exist?”

“Show me the evidence. I’d love to see it.”

We both know he doesn’t have shit.

He does try one tactic—tossing the plastic evidence bag holding my phone onto the table. “Here’s an interesting one: thing’s completely dead. Even our tech team couldn’t resurrect it.”

I bite back the proud smirk—Mak or Sofi did exactly what I needed them to do, right on time. “I’m due for an upgrade. It’s been giving me issues lately.”

“A man like you wouldn’t be walking around town without a fully functioning phone.”

“A man like me has a thousand other things on his mind. Plus, I had to fire my assistant recently, and she usually handled these things.”

His brow hits his hairline and he shuffles through the papers. “Oh? Care to share what went wrong, there?”

“She just wasn’t aligned with the company culture.”

The sudden silence between us is maddening. Either charge me or get me the hell out of here, asshole.

He straightens out the paperwork—and as he does, I see a snippet of a name. A sender’s email address. One I recognize.

“Let me guess.” I crack a tiny, patronizing smile. “You received a call from Stewart Hamish, the former president of Chekhov International, who promised you the inside scoop on everything that I have going on behind closed doors.”

“You know I can’t divulge my sources with you.” He smirks back at me. “At least, not until you’re charged and processed.”

“Which you can’t do without actual evidence or verifiable cause. I bet you can’t even get a warrant to hold me here.” I chuckle with pity. Just when I think I’ve heard and seen it all, some dumbass like him comes waltzing in to give me more. “All you have is a disgruntled former employee who hates the fact that his greed didn’t ruin me or my family like it did his. Serious charges need a stronger foundation than spite, Special Agent Smithson.”

Any vestige of a smirk is gone from his face now. “We have a warrant to search your entire estate, Chekhov. Our ATF team is out there as we speak.”

“Go for it. Knock yourselves out. In the meantime, I’ll be waiting for my lawyer to arrive.”

“You understand?—”

“Lawyer.”

Smithson narrows his eyes at me. “We’ve been surveilling you for months. Don’t think you can run and hide from this one.”

I widen my smile and whisper one more time, “Lawyer.”

I’ll repeat it until I’m blue in the face and he’s red in his. I’m done playing his fucking games.

He leans back in his chair with a long-suffering sigh. “Fine. Have it your way. You don’t have to talk, but you do have to listen. The game is over. You lost. As I said, we’ve been surveilling you for months and let me tell you, it’s been an interesting ride…”

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