My husband had me locked in a windowless subterranean holding room beneath our Chicago estate, claiming I had suffered a severe psychotic break.
The low, guttural rumble vibrated through the concrete floor, a deep tremor that settled in my bones. It was a heavy diesel engine, idling somewhere nearby in the subterranean loading dock.
Captain Cross re-entered the vault, his movements as precise as ever, but a flicker of something new played in his eyes. Two armed guards followed him, their faces grim.
“Heard that, did you?” Cross said, a cruel smile tightening his lips. “That’s your ride.”
He knelt, his hands moving to my leg irons. “Not going to a clinic, not going to a facility for observation.”
His eyes met mine, cold and flat. “You’re going to Gary, Indiana. To the industrial incinerator.”
A sudden chill, colder than the concrete floor, seeped into me. This wasn’t just disappearance; this was complete eradication. My blood ran cold, but my mind worked faster.
I closed my hand around the encrypted receiver Felix had given me. My thumb found the small, recessed button.
A silent three-digit code, `8-0-2`. My old audit frequency for black market logistics networks. I held it down, sending the signal back to Felix’s terminal. It was a plea, a confirmation, and a warning all at once.
Cross was already checking my pulse, his fingers firm against my wrist. “Still got a heartbeat. Shame.”
“Julian always overplays his hand,” I said, my voice steady despite the tremor in my chest. “Doesn’t he, Captain?”
He paused, his head cocked slightly. “What are you talking about?”
“The $42,000,000,” I continued, watching his face. “Stolen from Marcus O’Leary’s offshore bearer bond account. Transaction hash 73J-91K-44L. Processed through a shell corp in Panama on Tuesday, 2:17 AM.”
His eyes narrowed, losing some of their earlier bravado.
“He promised you a cut, didn’t he?” I pushed, my voice dropping. “A quarter-million dollars for a simple transport job. But you know as well as I do, O’Leary tracks everything.”
Cross let go of my wrist, his hand flexing. “You’re delusional.”
“Am I?” I pressed. “Or does it make you nervous to know exactly how deep in Julian’s pocket you’ve buried yourself? Taking money from a syndicate boss’s private funds? That’s a death sentence, Captain. Julian just hired you to dig his own grave.”
One of the guards shifted his weight, glancing at Cross. The air in the vault thickened.
“Julian Montgomery is a man of his word,” Cross snapped, but his gaze darted towards the exit, then back to me. The assurance wasn’t there anymore. He had a problem, and I had just made it very, very clear.
“He’s a man of his word,” I agreed. “His word just happens to be a lie wrapped in another lie. And now, you’re wrapped in it too.”
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