“A broadcast,” I said.

I pressed the red button on the screen.

On the wall behind Tony, the massive flat-screen television flickered.

The high-definition display changed from a dark screensaver to a video.

The audio began to play through the ceiling speakers.

It was a recording from the shipping docks.

The camera was positioned high up, looking down into a small warehouse office.

Tony was on the screen.

He was sitting at a desk, counting stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

“The old man has to go,” Tony’s recorded voice said.

The sound was incredibly clear, bouncing off the hard surfaces of the penthouse.

“What about the shipments?” another voice on the recording asked. It was Marcus’s old captain.

“Let the feds seize the cargo,” Tony’s recorded voice replied. “It makes the old man look weak. Once he is out of the way, we take the city.”

The guard on the leather sofa stood up.

The two guards by the window exchanged a quick look.

“Is this a joke?” the first guard asked.

“Turn that off,” Tony said, his voice losing its calm tone.