“The routing number I memorized,” I said. “It controls the offshore accounts that fund my mother’s medical care.”

“I know,” Roman said.

“If Arthur takes those funds, the clinic in Zurich will stop her treatments by morning,” I said.

“He won’t take them,” Roman said.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a black handgun, checking the chamber with a metallic click.

“The ledger holds more than just your mother’s trust,” Roman said. “It holds the names of every creditor in the midwest syndicate.”

“If Arthur clears it, he cleans his own slate,” I said. “And leaves us to face the fallout.”

“He thinks he can buy his way out,” Roman said.

The SUV swerved around a delivery truck, the tires splashing through deep puddles.

My heart hammered against my ribs, loud enough that I thought Roman could hear it.

I closed my eyes and pictured the numbers I had memorized from the burning paper.

The digits were burned into my mind, ten rows of twelve numbers each.

They were the only leverage I had left.

“We are two minutes out,” the driver called back.