…
Beckett smiled, almost admiring his adversary’s boldness.
He set the high-priced booze on his desk and reached into his file box, pulling out an almost-empty fifth of Jack Daniels. He placed both bottles in an unoccupied drawer and locked his vice before digging deeper into Swift’s package.
“Holy riches of regret,” he said, staring down at stacks of neatly bound bills–hundreds of thousands worth. “Fucking Jack Swift.”
Beckett appreciated the gesture, even pondered what his life would be like if he had just got up and left Interpol right that instant with a bottle of Clase Azul in his clutch and enough money to retire resting under his arm. He was too good of a man though.
…
