Over seventy-two hours, Neal wore a wire hidden in his cufflink. He recorded Harlow discussing offshore accounts, fake invoices, and the Colarinho Branco shell company. Diana listened from a van down the street, her fingers tight around a coffee cup.

"For now," Neal said, walking toward the exit. "But I'll see you next week. Harlow wasn't the big fish. He was just the bait."

"Of course," Neal said, straightening his tie. "I'm a forger, remember? But the evidence is real. Every word he said is on record."

Diana leaned forward. "Harlow is laundering money through a shell company called Colarinho Branco, S.A.—'White Collar' in Portuguese. He thinks he's untouchable. But you know his language: greed, ego, the thrill of the fake. I'm offering you a deal. You help me build a case, and I wipe your slate. No more running."

But before the trigger could click, red laser dots danced across Harlow's chest. The vault door slid open. Agent Reyes stood there, flanked by a dozen agents.

"Because you're the only man in this room who understands that value isn't real. It's agreed upon. A lie we all shake hands on."

"You forgot one thing, Harlow," Neal said, stepping back. "The wire wasn't in my cufflink. It was in the map. You've been confessing to a fake treaty for the last twenty minutes."

"Agent Reyes," Neal said, tilting his head. "I was expecting the usual—a dim room, a single lightbulb. This coffee is excellent. A new tactic?"