# Chapter 6: The Last Service
The message went out at precisely 2:00 AM, sent through a secure channel Andy had established years ago for restaurant supply orders. It was innocuous, a simple text:
*Urgent delivery needed for Copper Kettle. Truffle oil, saffron, beluga caviar. Special event. Please confirm availability.*
The response came twelve minutes later, from a number that traced to a burner phone:
*Available. Warehouse 7, Port Authority. 4 AM. Come alone.*
Andy showed the text to Resa, who was seated at his kitchen counter looking like she hadn't slept in days. "What does it mean?"
"It means Yuri took the bait. Warehouse 7 is owned by a shell company linked to his operation. He thinks I have the wallet with me."
"You don't."
"No. I have something better." He held up a small USB drive. "This contains a program that will trace his location in real-time, no matter where he goes. It embeds itself in his system and broadcasts GPS coordinates every thirty seconds. Peter built it before he died."
"Why didn't you use it before?"
"Because it only works if he's actively accessing the wallet. He hasn't been. He's been waiting. Now he'll access it to verify the funds before our meeting."
Resa studied him. "You're sure about this?"
"As sure as I've been about anything since Peter showed up in my kitchen."
Mike arrived ten minutes later, bearing coffee and surveillance equipment. "We have a team at the port. Six officers, full tactical. Morales is monitoring the GPS trace. We have air support on standby. This is as buttoned-up as it gets."
"Good," Andy said. "Because Yuri will see you coming."
Mike frowned. "What?"
"He'll have the warehouse under surveillance. He'll know you're there. He'll expect it." Andy pulled on his chef's jacket, the white canvas starched and perfect. "That's why I'm going in alone first."
"Absolutely not," Resa said. "That's not the plan."
"It is now." Andy's voice was firm, the tone of a man used to being obeyed in his kitchen. "Yuri won't show himself if he sees police. He'll run. And we'll lose him again. But if I go in alone, he'll come. He'll want to finish this face-to-face."
"He'll kill you."
"He'll try." Andy buttoned his jacket, adjusting the collar. "But I'm not the man I was in Bosnia. I'm harder to kill now."
Resa wanted to argue, but she saw his logic. Yuri was careful. He wouldn't walk into a trap unless he thought he was in control. Letting Andy go in first gave him that illusion.
"You're wearing a wire," she said.
"He'll search me."
"Then we put it somewhere he won't look."
Mike smiled. "I have an idea about that."
---
Warehouse 7 smelled of salt water and rust. At 3:45 AM, Andy walked through the unlocked door, his steps echoing in the cavernous space. Moonlight filtered through dirty windows, illuminating a maze of shipping containers and abandoned equipment. In the center, a table had been set up with two chairs. On the table, a laptop, open and waiting.
Yuri Volkov stood beside it, looking like he'd been carved from the same steel as the containers. He was older than Andy expected—mid-fifties, with gray hair cut military-short and eyes that had seen things no person should see. He wore a suit that cost more than Andy's car, but his hands were scarred, the knuckles broken and healed wrong.
"Chef," Yuri said. His accent was subtle, the kind that came from decades of speaking a second language perfectly. "Thank you for coming."
"I didn't have much choice."
"There's always a choice. Peter made the wrong ones. I trust you'll be smarter."
Andy approached the table but didn't sit. "Where's Emily?"
"The girl? Safe. Though her mother is worried. I believe Jennifer thinks she's with a friend." Yuri smiled. "We are not monsters, Chef. We are business people."
"Business people don't threaten children."
"Business people do whatever is necessary to protect their interests." Yuri gestured to the laptop. "I have verified that you transferred the funds. All of them. I am impressed. Peter chose his custodian well."
"The money is yours. Let my staff go. Let me go."
"Ah, but there's the problem." Yuri sat down, steepling his fingers. "The money you transferred is already frozen. The FBI was waiting. Clever. I underestimated you, and I do not like being underestimated."
Andy kept his face neutral. "So we both lose."
"Not quite. You see, I believe Peter gave you the real wallet. The one with the actual stolen Bitcoin. The funds you transferred were from a decoy account—perhaps Peter's personal savings, perhaps an emergency fund. But not the main haul. Peter was paranoid. He would never have kept everything in one place."
Andy said nothing. Silence was safer than lies.
Yuri continued: "So here is my offer. Give me the real wallet. The seed phrase, the hardware, everything. In exchange, I will let you live. I will let your staff live. I will even let Detective Rational live, though she has been a considerable nuisance."
"And if I refuse?"
Yuri's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Then I will burn your kitchen to the ground. I will burn the hotel. I will burn your life. And then I will take what I want anyway."
Andy reached into his pocket. Yuri tensed, but it was just the USB drive. "This contains the wallet information. But it's encrypted. I need the laptop to access it."
"Place it on the table. Slowly."
Andy did. His fingers brushed the keyboard, and he typed in a command. The screen flickered, then displayed a complex string of characters—the seed phrase for a Bitcoin wallet.
Yuri leaned forward, his eyes hungry. "Transfer it. Now."
"First, let Emily go. Call your people. Tell them to bring her here."
"No. Transfer first."
"Then we have no deal." Andy straightened. "I'm not Peter. I don't scare easily. You kill me, you get nothing. The wallet is on a dead man's switch. I don't enter a code every twenty-four hours, it deletes itself. Permanently."
It was a bluff. Yuri knew it might be a bluff. But the risk was too great. He pulled out a phone, dialed a number.
"Bring the girl," he said in Russian. "Now."
Andy kept his breathing steady. This was the dangerous part. When Emily arrived, when she was safe, then the real plan could begin.
They waited in silence, the warehouse creaking around them. After fifteen minutes, a car pulled up outside. Two men entered, propelling Jennifer Lau and Emily before them. Jennifer's eyes were wild with fear. Emily looked confused but not scared, clutching her unicorn backpack.
"Mommy?" she said. "Why are we here?"
"It's okay, baby." Jennifer's voice shook. "Everything's okay."
Yuri gestured, and the men released them. Jennifer grabbed Emily, pulling her close.
"Get them out of here," Andy said softly. "Go home. Don't look back."
Jennifer hesitated, then ran, pulling Emily with her. Andy watched them go, feeling something loosen in his chest. One innocent safe. That mattered.
"Now," Yuri said. "The transfer."
Andy typed the seed phrase into the wallet interface. The balance appeared: 51,284 BTC. The real wallet. The real fortune.
"I'm sending it to your wallet," Andy said. "But I need your address."
Yuri rattled off a string of characters. Andy entered them, his fingers steady. He clicked "send."
The transaction processed. On screen, the balance dropped to zero as the coins transferred to Yuri's control.
"Done," Andy said.
Yuri checked his own device, a small tablet. His smile was genuine this time, predatory. "Excellent."
He reached into his jacket. Andy tensed, ready to move, but Yuri just pulled out a cigar. "You know, Chef, I respect you. You kept your word. You protected your people. Peter would have been proud."
"Peter's dead."
"Yes." Yuri clipped the cigar. "That was unfortunate. He was talented. But talent without loyalty is just... opportunity."
"What now?"
"Now?" Yuri stood. "Now I leave. And you go back to your kitchen. But remember this: if you ever mention my name, if you ever think about revenge, if you ever so much as glance at a cryptocurrency exchange, I will find you. The money is mine. The consequences are yours."
He turned to go. Andy let him take three steps before speaking:
"Yuri, one more thing."
The Russian turned. Andy was holding a small device—a panic button, the kind elderly people wear around their necks. He pressed it.
"I forgot to mention," Andy said. "The seed phrase I gave you? It triggers a GPS tracker the moment the wallet is accessed. Not just location—it broadcasts to every law enforcement agency in a hundred-mile radius."
Yuri's face went white. "You—"
The warehouse doors exploded inward. SWAT officers flooded in, Resa's voice calling "Police! Get down!" over a bullhorn. Yuri reached for his gun, but Andy was already moving. He'd spent twenty years in kitchens, developing reflexes that could dodge a knife or correct a falling plate. He dove behind a shipping container as gunfire erupted.
The firefight was brief but intense. Yuri's two men went down immediately, caught in the crossfire. Yuri himself managed to get behind a forklift, returning fire with a precision that spoke of training. But he was outnumbered, outgunned, and—thanks to Andy's GPS tracker—completely surrounded.
"Yuri Volkov!" Resa's voice rang out. "Drop your weapon! This is over!"
Andy peeked around the container. He saw Yuri calculating, weighing his options. The Russian's eyes found his across the warehouse. There was no anger there, only a strange kind of respect.
"You cooked me," Yuri called out. "Like a perfect dish. Ingredients, timing, execution."
"It's what I do," Andy shouted back.
Yuri stood, his hands raised, but the gun was still in his grip. "Then let me offer you one last critique."
He moved faster than Andy thought possible, bringing the gun up not at the police, but at Andy. The shot cracked through the warehouse, echoing off the steel walls.
Andy felt something hot slice across his shoulder. He spun, falling back behind the container. The return fire was deafening. When it stopped, the warehouse was silent except for the ringing in his ears.
"Andy!" Resa's voice, closer now. "Andy, are you hit?"
"I'm okay!" he called back, though his shoulder burned like he'd leaned against a hot stove. "Just grazed!"
He heard footsteps, cautious. Then Resa was there, her face pale in the dim light. "You idiot. You absolute goddamn idiot."
"Did you get him?"
"He's down. Alive, but down." She pressed her hand against his shoulder, applying pressure. "You should have stayed behind cover."
"He was going to shoot someone. Better me than you."
Mike appeared with a first aid kit. "Everyone's favorite hero chef. Let's see that shoulder."
As Mike worked on the wound—cleaning it, wrapping it—Andy watched the police swarm Yuri. The Russian was hit in the leg and shoulder, bleeding but conscious. Even wounded, he radiated menace.
"He'll talk," Resa said, following Andy's gaze. "He'll deal. He knows his network is compromised."
"Don't let him deal," Andy said quietly. "He's too dangerous."
"The law doesn't work that way."
"Then I'll make sure he doesn't get the chance." Andy winced as Mike tightened the bandage. "I have a friend. In the Marshal's service. He owes me. If Yuri gets bail...
"He won't. Two billion dollars in stolen crypto, plus kidnapping, plus attempted murder? He's going away for life."
Andy nodded, but he didn't look convinced. Some threats, he knew, didn't disappear just because they were behind bars.
---
At the hospital, they cleaned and stitched his shoulder. The doctor said it was a clean graze, would heal in a few weeks. Andy didn't care about the wound. He cared about the fact that Emily was safe, that Jennifer was home, that his kitchen was intact.
Resa sat with him while they waited for the discharge paperwork. She looked exhausted, her usual sharp edges softened by fatigue.
"You did good," she said. "Stupid, but good."
"You said that already."
"It bears repeating." She handed him a coffee. "The money is secure. All of it. The real wallet and the decoy. We'll process it as evidence, but eventually it'll go back to the Singapore exchange. Insurance will cover the rest."
"And me?"
"You're a hero. Also under indictment. Priya says the prosecutor is willing to drop all charges in exchange for your cooperation and testimony. You'll have to testify against Yuri, Marcus, and Sofia."
"I can do that."
"And you'll never see a dime of that money."
"I never wanted it." Andy sipped his coffee. It was terrible, hospital coffee, but it was hot. "I just wanted to cook."
"You can go back to that now."
"Can I?" He looked at her. "Yuri has a network. They know my name. They know where I work. Even if he's in prison, someone else might come looking."
"Then we protect you." Resa's voice was firm. "Witness protection if you want it. Or we go public—make you a hero chef who took down a criminal empire. Harder to kill a celebrity."
He smiled. "You have this all figured out."
"I have the easy part. You did the hard part." She stood. "Get some rest. Tomorrow, we start the paperwork. And after that, you can go back to your kitchen."
He nodded, but as she left, he felt the weight of the future pressing down. A future where he looked over his shoulder, where every stranger was a potential threat, where his simple kitchen was no longer simple.
Maybe Resa was right. Maybe going public was the answer. Make him untouchable. Turn him into a story instead of a target.
Or maybe the only answer was to disappear completely. New name, new city, new kitchen. Leave Andy Melone behind like a burned sauce.
He thought about Peter, who'd tried to run and died for it. He thought about Yuri, who'd tried to control everything and lost it all. He thought about the Consortium, now shattered, its members in cages.
Mostly, he thought about his crew at the Copper Kettle. Maria, who'd trusted him for eight years. Tom, who was studying programming. Lisa, who sent money to her mother. Jennifer and Emily, safe at home, probably never wanting to see him again.
He couldn't disappear. They deserved better than a chef who ran when things got hard.
So he'd stay. He'd testify. He'd become a story, a hero, whatever it took. And he'd keep cooking, because that was the one thing they couldn't take from him. Not Yuri, not the Consortium, not the ghosts of Bosnia or the memory of Peter's dead eyes.
The doctor returned with discharge papers. Andy signed them with his left hand—his right shoulder was stiff and painful. As he left the hospital, he saw the first light of dawn breaking over the city.
A new day. A new service.
He took out his phone and called Maria.
"Chef?" She sounded worried. "Are you okay? I heard you were shot."
"Just grazed. I'm fine. Listen, I'm coming back to work tomorrow. Can you handle prep?"
A pause. Then: "You're really coming back?"
"Where else would I go?"
She laughed, the sound watery with relief. "We'll be ready. The kitchen is clean. The line is ready."
"Good. I'll see you at noon."
He hung up and kept walking, past the taxi stand, past the bus stop. He wanted to walk, to feel the city around him, alive and indifferent. Two billion dollars had moved through this place last night, and most of its citizens would never know. They'd just know that the Copper Kettle had excellent duck confit and a chef who'd been in the news.
That was enough. That was everything.
His phone buzzed. Resa.
*Yuri is demanding to speak with you. Says he'll only talk to the chef.*
Andy stopped walking. Stared at the screen. Then typed back:
*Tell him I'll bring the duck. He can bring the wine.*
A moment later:
*You're insane.*
*Probably. But I'm also a very good chef. See you at the arraignment.*
He put his phone away and kept walking, the sun rising ahead of him, painting the glass towers gold. Another day, another service.
The kitchen was calling.
And for the first time since Peter had walked into it three weeks ago, Andy Melone was ready to answer.
