Investigate a Money Laundering Trail
The Singapore skyline glittered like a shattered diamond, its reflection dancing on the inky surface of Marina Bay. Clarissa Tan stepped out of the black sedan, the humid night air thick with the scent of frangipani and exhaust. She cinched her trench coat tighter, not against the breeze, but against the unease coiled in her gut. This city hides its secrets too well, she thought, her eyes narrowing at the neon glow of skyscrapers that housed both Fortune 500 companies and shadowy syndicates. A former Interpol agent, she’d dismantled crypto cartels in Zurich and art forgery rings in Bangkok, but this case—case-this web of deceit—thrummed with a danger that made her pulse quicken. The Nine Dragons weren’t just criminals; they were architects of chaos, their tendrils embedded in governments, banks, and bloodstained alleys alike.
Her heels clicked against the pavement as she approached her apartment, a nondescript building in Tanjong Pagar favored by expats who valued discretion. A rustle echoed from the alley to her left. She didn’t flinch, but her hand drifted to the Glock 26 holstered beneath her coat. Shadows shifted, fleeting and deliberate. Not a stray cat, she noted, cataloging the sound: the scuff of leather soles, the faint creak of a weapon’s strap. Her breath steadied. She’d been trailed before—in Macau, a Triad enforcer had tailed her for three blocks before she’d disarmed him in a dumpling shop. But tonight felt…theatrical. A performance.
—
The envelope lay at her doorstep, stark white against the weathered wood. No stamp, no insignia. Inside, the Nine of Dragons card gleamed, its crimson serpent coiled around a sword—a symbol she’d last seen stamped on a heroin shipment in Manila. The note’s jagged script hissed a warning: “Walk away.” Clarissa smirked, tucking the card into her pocket like a trophy. Threats were currency in her world, and this one was pure gold.
Following the Money
By 2 a.m., she was hunched in a corner booth at The Neon Lotus, a cybercafé in Geylang where the air smelled of stale noodles and desperation. The owner, a grizzled ex-hacker named Raj, kept the back room stocked with VPNs and silence. Her laptop hummed, decrypting files from her mole inside Golden Horizon Capital—a Hong Kong firm that had funneled billions through shell companies as intricate as Russian nesting dolls.
“Mei Ling,” Clarissa muttered, tracing the woman’s digital footprint. The Dragon’s protege operated under the guise of Shenzhen Biotech Solutions, her labs supposedly pioneering malaria vaccines. But the spreadsheets revealed a different story: “research grants” diverted to Cayman Islands accounts, “charitable donations” to a phantom foundation in Jakarta. One subsidiary, Vitalis Pharma, reported crippling losses while quietly purchasing a fleet of private jets.
Clarissa’s fingers flew across the keyboard, cross-referencing names. A Cambodian minister. A Malaysian shipping magnate. A chain of Bangkok spas frequented by oligarchs. Then, a ledger entry froze her mid-sip. Bribes—$12 million—approved for regulatory exemptions. The recipient’s name was redacted, but the authorization signature…
Subianto…
Her coffee turned to ash in her mouth. Adrian Subianto. Her former Interpol partner. The man who’d saved her life in a raid gone wrong in Kyiv. The one who’d drunkenly confessed his guilt over “compromises” he’d made.
A notification pinged—a message from Raj. “They’re in the system. 30 secs.”
She slammed the laptop shut, but not before spotting the timestamp on Subianto’s approval: two days ago. He’s alive. And working with them.
As she melted into the labyrinth of Geylang’s backstreets, Clarissa’s mind raced. The Nine Dragons hadn’t just infiltrated governments—they’d corrupted the very people sworn to stop them. And now, they’d made it personal.
A Dangerous Meeting
Clarissa’s gloved fingers trembled imperceptibly as she stared at the ledger entry, the name Subianto burning into her retinas like a brand. Rain lashed against the cybercafé’s fogged windows, distorting the neon signs outside into bleeding smears of pink and green. Was he coerced? Blackmailed? Or did he choose this? The questions clawed at her, sharpened by memories: Subianto laughing over tsingtao beers in a Berlin safehouse, Subianto shielding her from shrapnel in Kyiv, Subianto’s hollow stare the night he’d muttered, “Sometimes the only way out is deeper in.”
Her phone buzzed, snapping the thread. An unknown number. Three words:
“D10. Midnight. No police.”
D10—Dragon’s Tenth, though only the syndicate’s inner circle used that name. To Singapore’s glittering elite, it was simply the most exclusive nightclub in Marina Bay, a velvet-roped fortress where CEOs snorted cocaine off Balinese teak tables and arms dealers brokered deals in VIP booths draped in silk. Clarissa checked her watch: 11:47 p.m. Thirteen minutes. She palmed a switchblade from her desk drawer and slipped it into her boot.
The club throbbed with bass, the air thick with jasmine incense and the tang of spilled vodka. Clarissa melted into the crowd, her sequined midnight-blue dress—purchased en route from a 24-hour boutique—glimmering like a knife’s edge. She ordered a gin martini at the onyx bar, her eyes scanning mirrored walls for exits. Four bodyguards near the DJ, six hostesses with earpieces, one man in a Tom Ford suit watching her from the shadows, his tie pin shaped like a dragon’s claw.
He approached with the casual menace of a shark. “You’re making powerful enemies,” he said, his Mandarin laced with a Hokkien accent. Up close, he was younger than she’d expected—late thirties, a scar bisecting his left eyebrow. His cufflinks bore the same serpent-and-sword emblem as the Nine of Dragons card.
Clarissa sipped her drink, the gin bitter on her tongue. “I’ve always preferred enemies to friends. Less disappointing.”
The man’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You think you’re unraveling a money trail? This isn’t a trail. It’s an abyss.” He slid a USB drive across the bar, its surface etched with a microscopic dragon scale pattern. “The truth is here. But it will bury you.”
She pocketed the drive, her pulse steady. “Tell Mei Ling her threats are getting predictable.”
“Mei Ling doesn’t threaten.” He leaned closer, his breath smelling of cloves and danger. “She erases.”
Before she could reply, a hostess materialized, whispering in the man’s ear. His gaze flicked to the club’s entrance, where two men in tactical gear lingered. Not security. Private militia. Clarissa recognized the insignia on their sleeves: a subsidiary of Shenzhen Biotech.
“You have ninety seconds,” the man said, vanishing into the crowd.
Clarissa ducked into the restroom, locking herself in a stall. She pried open the USB with her switchblade—a habit from her Interpol days. Inside, a tiny transmitter blinked. Tracking device. She crushed it under her heel and downloaded the files onto her encrypted cloud, fingers flying. The first document loaded: surveillance photos of her apartment, timestamped that morning. The second: a contract for her assassination, bid out to three mercenary groups. The third—
—
Security footage from a Kuala Lumpur hotel, dated two weeks prior. Subianto handed a briefcase to Mei Ling herself, her porcelain face half-hidden by a veiled hat. Clarissa zoomed in. The briefcase’s lock bore Interpol’s seal.
A fist pounded on the stall door. “Ms. Tan?” A woman’s voice, polite but cold. “Management requests your presence.”
Clarissa flushed the USB shards, then hoisted herself onto the toilet tank and shoved open the ceiling panel. As she hauled herself into the crawlspace, the stall door splintered.
Gunfire. A bullet punched through the metal door, missing her ankle by inches.
She crawled toward a service exit, the club’s bass masking her movements. The USB files seared her mind. Subianto wasn’t just compromised—he was trading Interpol intelligence to the Dragons. And now, they knew she knew.
As she dropped into an alley, her phone lit up with a new message—a photo of her disembarking the sedan earlier that night. Below it, a single line:
“Swim faster.”
Clarissa’s apartment smelled of burnt coffee and paranoia. The steel shutters were drawn, casting the studio in slatted shadows. A single desk lamp glowed, its light reflecting off the bulletproof glass she’d installed after the Manila incident. Her fingers hovered over the USB drive—the one that nearly got her killed—its dragon-scale etching cold against her skin. She’d scrubbed it for trackers, dunked it in a Faraday pouch, and now, with gloved hands, inserted it into an air-gapped laptop. The screen flickered to life, its encryption protocols bypassed by code Raj had taught her years ago.
Files cascaded open: spreadsheets bleeding red numbers, wire transfers snaking through offshore banks, emails with subject lines like “Phase 3 Trials” and “Shipment 9-Delta.” Her eyes scanned, rapid and ruthless. Mei Ling’s biotech empire wasn’t just laundering cash—it was a front for something darker. A PDF loaded—a procurement list. Hydrogen cyanide. CRISPR kits. Live viral cultures. Her throat tightened.
Then she saw it.