Blackstone Code-Chapter 459: I Just Want to Live

“Someone talk to me!” Preyton pulled a gun to his head. “Or I’ll shoot myself!”
He emphasized, “I’m not joking!” His expression was serious as he swaggered over and sat on the doorstep.
Soon, a middle-aged man in a suit came out from the opposite room, looking grim. He was clearly the leader of the group.
He approached Preyton and showed his badge. “Federal Security Commission. Can I ask how you found us?”
The commission team leader was confident no one could spot their setup, yet Preyton had seen through it immediately.
Preyton didn’t answer right away but took the badge seriously and asked, “Can I call to verify this badge?”
The leader was momentarily stunned, then nodded. “Sure, but no tricks!”
Preyton went inside, called the local police, and briefly explained the situation—that someone claimed he needed to cooperate with a secret national operation and showed ID.
He was unsure if the badge was real and wanted the police to confirm.
Minutes later, the operator confirmed the badge was genuine.
Preyton sighed with relief, reopened the door, slowly put his gun on the ground, kicked it away, then lay on the floor with hands raised to show he was harmless.
As agents put restraints on him, he said to the team leader, “Your vehicle’s windows are tinted…”
The leader suddenly turned and stared at the van, a look of disbelief on his face.
After carefully planning the arrest for so long, they’d been undone by one detail—a tinted window—that he hadn’t even noticed, despite seeing clear windows every day.
“The logistics department should be fired!” he muttered, then personally escorted Preyton onto the van.
The agents came and left quickly. Soon, neighbors gathered, chatting and speculating about the new residents.
Meanwhile, inside the van, the two men spoke.
“You seemed to be waiting for us,” the leader said. Preyton’s willingness to reveal himself and verify credentials showed he hadn’t planned to escape or resist, which intrigued the leader.
What was Preyton’s mindset? If he wanted to surrender, why hadn’t he contacted local investigators earlier?
Preyton admitted frankly, “You already found me. Hiding is pointless. As long as you’re not from Gephra, I’m willing to cooperate.”
Caught by the Federation, Preyton could still live. He was a blemish on Gephra’s polished image and constantly embarrassed its emperor. As long as he was useful, the Federation wouldn’t kill him—they’d showcase him occasionally.
But if Gephra caught him, he had no chance.
The emperor would kill him in rage, the naval minister wouldn’t spare him, and nobles who lost money to him likely sent assassins worldwide.
None of them wanted him alive.
Now that Federation agents found him, Gephra’s spies soon would too. He didn’t know how he was exposed, but once exposed, escape was impossible.
“Didn’t you consider resisting?” the leader asked, curious about this rare submission. “Running away?”
Preyton smiled but said nothing.
The Federation found him because all his decoys were caught or killed; none was the real Preyton. Intelligence agencies reviewed the clues again and concluded the Preyton on the radar was a fake; the real one was still hidden in the Federation.
Under pressure from both Gephra and the Baylor Federation, no bank could withstand the strain.
They traced several possible anonymous accounts, checked signatures for matches, and found clues.
Many accounts weren’t his, but that was expected—this was a long, difficult process with uncertain results, but they had to continue.
They didn’t expect to catch Preyton so quickly, tracking him through anonymous account activity.
Preyton asked, “How did you find me?” with a curious smile. “You don’t have to tell me.”
The leader decided to share since Preyton cooperated. “Your accounts showed no activity for years. You understand what that means?”
Preyton caught on immediately. “I hadn’t thought of that before.”
He had prepared those anonymous accounts carefully over many years to cover his tracks, believing no one could trace them that far back.
But that caution exposed him.
Accounts with no activity for years suddenly showed transactions during his hiding. The payment signatures resembled his. Filtering this info wasn’t hard.
If he’d used accounts with regular transactions, he might have avoided this sweep.
News of Preyton’s arrest spread among a few quickly. Mr. Truman abruptly ended a phone meeting, obtained authorization from the president, and rushed to the Security Commission.
As head of Office for International Affairs and Policy, and a close presidential advisor, Truman had authority to oversee the interrogation.
Before meeting Preyton, Truman thought the arrest would be dramatic. But the team leader told him Preyton didn’t resist except to verify his badge.
This surprised Truman, since Preyton had been clever—using multiple decoys and spreading misinformation. The arrest should have been difficult, yet Preyton ended his flight in an unexpected way, giving Truman clear insight into the situation.
The two reached the interrogation room. Truman stepped inside, stopped the team behind him from entering, and closed the door.
Inside were only Preyton, bound to a chair, and Truman.
“I know you. I see you on TV often…” Truman said.
Before Preyton could respond, Truman pulled out two handkerchiefs—one ready to use, one spare.
At the end of September, the Federation was still hot, and one handkerchief was hardly enough.
Lynch unfolded the handkerchief, covered two cameras, and unplugged the listening wires. This action was immediately ed by the monitoring room.
However, the Security Commission officers handling the case were not surprised—it was a calculated move.
In the room, Mr. Truman rose from his chair, returned to the interrogation table, and sat down. “No one is watching us now, and no one can hear what we say. Let’s be honest with each other.”
“What do you want, Preyton?”
Without hesitation, Preyton replied, “I just want to live.”
This didn’t surprise Truman; everyone wanted to live, including him. He nodded noncommittally. “Then say something I’m interested in—like your dealings with Gephra’s high ministers and the list.”
“If I talk, will I survive?”
“You should understand, you’re more valuable alive than dead.”
They talked in that private room for over an hour. Truman left with valuable information, and Preyton seemed relieved.
That very night, Gephra’s Finance Minister had just finished dinner when the phone rang.
The lavish room gleamed with gold trim even on the corners.
The Finance Minister held a lucrative position overseeing all
official projects
tied to the empire, with plenty of influence and opportunities.
He entered his study and answered the local call.
Unlike international calls, which required operators, were hard to connect, and were recorded, domestic calls were simpler.
No sooner had he sat down, still savoring his meal, than his expression darkened.