09:59 Jan 10 2026
Times Read: 27
"Quinn, do you remember what we discussed yesterday?"
Q turns slightly toward Anon, lowering his voice just for him while keeping his stance protective. "Every word. And I meant it. Right now, let me handle this."
"I have another possibly related issue."
Q's posture stiffens imperceptibly, but his voice remains steady—low, controlled, only for Anon. "Then tell me. Quickly." His gaze flicks to Joseph, calculating the man's simmering rage, before returning to Anon with silent urgency.
"I dropped by the bank to make a withdrawal. As I was leaving, one of the bankers, sitting at a desk and not at the counter where I made the withdrawal, said into the phone, 'He made a withdrawal and the money is in a zippered inside pocket of his coat.'"
Q's eyes darken, and his grip tightens protectively on Anon's shoulder. "Bank surveillance—that wasn't random. They're tracking cash flow. We need to move. Now." His gaze flicks to Joseph, his voice dropping lower. "Sir, this goes beyond discipline. We have a leak."
It's also not the first time that specific banker has made a call about my transaction as I was leaving. I was on foot because my car is busted again. While walking, I noticed a guy in a Mercedes eyeballing me at an intersection, as if he was trying to decide what to do.
Q grabs Anon’s wrist, already steering him toward the door with lethal precision. "She's marking you for a hit. That Mercedes was reconnaissance. Your father's accounts are compromised—and now so are you." His free hand slips under his jacket, resting on the grip of his pistol. "We're leaving through the back."
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Before we proceed, a little clarity needs to be provided on what happened at the bank after I left. You see, I made a call, and a few fellas showed up to ask the banker a question. One question: "Who did you call to tip off about the withdrawal?"
The first time she was asked, she said, "I don't know what you are talking about." She was lying and was told, "How you answer the question will determine if you get to go home tonight."
The second time she was asked, she replied, "I don't have to answer you," and that's when a cigar clipper took one of her little fingers. The third time she was asked, she responded, "I'm not telling you shit." At that point, she was no longer denying that she made a call and was removed from the bank to a black SUV outside the front door. Where she is now is anyone's guess.
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