"The intelligence on the Fraternity, along with the architectural blueprints for the textile mill, has been sent to your offshore email address."
"Thank you."
"My dear friend, might I ask why you've decided to move against the Fraternity? Of course, if you'd rather not answer, that is perfectly fine. It just so happens that since you are dealing with them, there is something inside I require."
Locke stood on his balcony, the corners of his mouth twitching upward as he listened to that iconic, gravelly laugh from the other end of the line. "They are looking for death. Does that count as a reason?"
"It does!"
Somewhere, Raymond Reddington—the Red—was savoring a fine meal. He let out a hearty laugh. "I have seen the news in New York."
"Oh? And what did you see?"
"Haha, that is a secret, my dear friend."
Locke remained silent.
One had to admit, listening to Red's laughter from a third-party perspective was pleasant enough, but being on the receiving end always made one feel the urge to throw a punch.
But... one had to stay calm.
In this day and age, finding a qualified intelligence provider was difficult; finding one you knew through and through was even rarer.
Like that provider back in Texas.
Motherfucker.
When Locke was preparing to relocate to New York, that guy actually thought he was hot stuff and tried to threaten him. The result, naturally, went without saying.
Locke never accepted threats.
After a moment, the laughter on the other end subsided. Red wiped his lips with a napkin and rose from his chair in someone else's dining room. "Once the goods arrive, send a message. I will have someone pick them up."
"Don't forget your five hundred thousand!"
"Pleasure doing business, my friend!"
"Pleasure."
Red listened to the dial tone, chuckled, and handed the phone back to the armed Dembe. He then tilted his head, watching the man kneeling on the floor before him with the poise of a gentleman.
The next second, a gunshot echoed through the room.
...
Locke hung up the phone decisively.
He had just concluded a very standard business transaction.
Simply put: tomorrow was Monday, a workday.
The day before yesterday, when Locke decided to postpone his move against the Fraternity until Monday morning, he had reached out to Red to see if he had maps of the textile mill.
According to the original plot, that old Sloan had a secret escape tunnel.
Time was tight, and Locke couldn't be bothered to break into the New York City Hall to steal the original construction blueprints.
But the reason Locke had waited until now wasn't for fun or because he was bored. He wanted to wipe them out in one fell swoop. Otherwise, why bother waiting for a workday?
When Locke had inquired with one of Red's associates, Red himself had called back.
At first, Locke found it a bit surprising. Aside from their initial contact, most intelligence purchases were handled by Red's subordinates. A man like Reddington had long since moved past the stage of handling such simple intel personally.
However, Locke realized the catch.
Information doesn't just fall from the sky for any broker, especially not for someone like Red.
For an intelligence merchant, the most valuable asset belonging to a world-renowned assassin organization like the Fraternity was, naturally, their ledger.
The ledger that recorded the true names of every single client.
But...
While the Fraternity had existed for a long time, Sloan's side business of taking private contracts shouldn't have been going on for more than ten years.
Once Red spoke, Locke realized he had guessed half of it correctly.
Red wanted the ledger, but not the whole thing.
In Red's words, he never cheated people. A ledger from an organization that had run a private assassination business for six years wasn't something you could buy for a mere five hundred thousand dollars.
Red was paying half a million just for one specific page.
He even told Locke exactly which page it was, and precisely where the ledger was hidden within the textile mill.
Classic Reddington.
Locke didn't have much of a reaction to the news. This was Red, after all. Besides, Locke wasn't interested in the contents of that page.
You take the money, you solve the problem.
That was the basic professional etiquette of an assassin, and as a qualified one, Locke possessed it in spades.
You don't tell, I don't ask. I only want to know: how much?
Furthermore...
Based on the four seasons of The Blacklist Locke had seen, he could guess with his toes that the contents of that page were definitely related to Red's true identity—the one he went to great lengths to hide.
That was the kind of thing you didn't want to ask about.
Locke wasn't afraid of anyone, but he hated trouble—especially the kind that pointlessly disrupted his quest-grinding and godhood fund.
Since Red made an offer, he'd give it to him.
The customer is king.
Locke returned to his study and opened his offshore email. A message from Red's associate, "I am not Red," had already arrived.
He opened it.
The Fraternity's roster, the architectural blueprints of the textile mill, and even the additions made during several renovations were all included.
"As expected of the Red Man!"
Locke clicked his tongue in admiration. "He really is a powerhouse worthy of the title 'Gatekeeper of the Criminal World'."
Locke had given himself the title "Peerless," but Red's "Gatekeeper" title was universally recognized. There was no comparison.
Locke studied the opened blueprints, licking his lips. With these, wiping out the Fraternity tomorrow morning wouldn't be a difficult task at all.
*Ring, ring, ring!*
Locke grabbed his phone, saw the caller ID, and raised an eyebrow.
"Gwen?"
He answered, sounding curious. "It is so late, aren't you asleep yet?"
It was almost midnight. As expected of a hardworking genius.
Gwen, leaning against her headboard, smiled and closed her book. "Are you taking the bus or driving to school tomorrow?"
Locke blinked. "Is there a bus that goes from Fifth Avenue to the school?"
How did he not know this? He'd wasted money on a luxury taxi the first time his car was trashed.
Though even if there was, Locke probably wouldn't take it. He preferred his comfort.
Gwen chuckled. "Of course there is. But if you are driving tomorrow, we can go together. I got my license, remember?"
"We went together, of course I remember," Locke said. "But I might be a little late tomorrow."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. Regarding the paperwork for the apartment at Star Tower, I need to go pick up some documents. It shouldn't take long, though."
The textile mill staff started work at 6:00 AM.
Fast in, fast out.
He could finish the battle in an hour, around 7:00 AM. Then he'd rush back, drive to "pick up the documents," and head to school. He should be able to make it before the first class at 8:30 AM.
Gwen was surprised, then sighed. "Alright then. I thought maybe you could sit next to me and give me some pointers."
Locke smiled. "Didn't George say he would follow you the first day you drove?"
"Dad is working overtime!"
"Fair enough."
Gwen laughed it off. "Dad just left the house. Apparently, he has to go to court to apply for some search warrant, otherwise he won't make it in time for tomorrow morning's operation."
Locke: "..."
***
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