He twitches. “Shut up.”
“You still believe all the lies he’s told you, about what a good provider and protector he is, how he’s just working hard to feed his family. Don’t you wonder what it costs? Don’t you know who he really is? All the lives he’s ruined so you can live like a prince? He doesn’t care about little people like my mom. And he’s not afraid to lie to you about it.”
“I said shut up!” Michael says, in my face now, breathing hard, grabbing me by the shoulders like he wants to shake me. “Just shut up about him!”
I almost laugh. He’s his father’s son all right. I lean into his anger, relishing it, and wait for him to hit me. But he lets go, like I’m not worth the effort, and I sink back into the cot.
He swivels and paces, collecting himself. On the other side of the room, with his back to me, he takes a deep breath. “What were you doing in his office?”
I consider. “Hunting.”
He eyes me over his shoulder. “For what?”
“For everything. I was hunting for everything.”
“What ‘everything’? Stop playing. Say what you mean.”
“I mean everything. Bank records, proof he’s working with terrorists, that he’s selling them arms, buying their blood gold. Who he’s working with, where. Every dirty little secret. And you know what? I got them. I got them all.”
Dirt. Then money. Then blood.
Maybe it’s just the light, but Michael’s pale face seems to go a funny grayish color. He looks at me, then down at the USB adapter plugged into his laptop. He yanks it out, drops it to the ground, and stomps on it with his heel like it’s a cockroach.
I smile at the broken pieces and lean back, my cuffed hands cradling my head. “That’s not going to help. That thing was just a tool. I used it to send your dad’s files to my partner. Crush it. Hit me. It’s only a matter of time before every nasty, illegal thing your father’s ever done is out there in the public eye.”
“That’s what you want to do? Drag his name through the mud?”
“Yep,” I say.
That and so much more.
“Well, you’re too late,” Michael says bitterly. “All those lies have been paraded around in the press and he’s still standing. No one has any proof. And that’s because it’s not true. Extracta’s mines all pass their health and safety checks, every time. The miners get good wages. No one’s a slave.”
“I’m impressed, Mikey. You know more about Daddy’s company than I would have thought. Too bad all your intel is wrong. Where did you get it? Oh, let me guess, Extracta Mining Company’s head of East African operations, Mr. Roland Greyhill, aka Daddy?” I shake my head in mock sympathy. “My money’s on his hard drive telling a different story. It’s true that Extracta’s already under scrutiny, though. And they’re going to need a scapegoat when this all comes out. Guess who that’s going to be?”
“How do you know what’s on his hard drive? Did you look at the files?”
“It—I just do.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head slowly. “You didn’t have time. You weren’t in there that long. You didn’t see anything. He doesn’t have slaves. He doesn’t work with terrorists.”
I suck my teeth in impatience. Does Michael live under a Swiss rock? “Don’t you know how it works in Congo? Allow me to educate you. Militias and the Congolese army are fighting, and to keep fighting they need money and weapons. They use slave labor to mine gold, and your dad buys it on the cheap from them. Then he launders that gold through Extracta’s mines, acting like it’s all shiny and conflict free.”
Michael’s brow is furrowed. “No. You’re crazy. Where are you getting all this?”
“I have my sources.”
“It’s all lies. He’s bringing jobs and industry to the Congo.”
He sounds like he’s quoting someone, like he’s memorized this speech and given it before.
“Come on, Michael.” I almost feel sorry for the poor guy. “You’re brainwashed. You don’t get as rich as your dad is playing by the rules.” I wave my handcuffed wrists around the room. “You’ve got me in a torture chamber, for God’s sake!”
“It’s not a torture chamber! It’s a panic room.”
I shake my handcuffs at him. “And these? Are these to keep me from panicking?” I watch him struggle to respond.
A sickish feeling has started creeping up in my stomach, and I don’t like it. It’s not my problem if pretty boy is in denial. Don’t think about Michael, think about Mama, I tell myself. Think about all the bad things Greyhill’s done. He has to pay for them. I have a plan, and I’m sticking to it. I can’t be bothered with the feelings of spoiled rich boys. “It doesn’t matter what you think,” I say. “It’s all going to be out there soon. You’ll see.”