Strip off that coat and go clear dirty plates in the banquet hall, Nia—you're staff tonight, not family, my mother-in-law Evelyn snapped, her voice echoing across the candlelit grand ballroom.
Heavy footsteps thudded up the communal stairs of my apartment building. They were coming fast, too heavy for the usual residents.
I froze, the receiver still pressed to my ear. Deacon’s voice, a distant drone.
“They’re here,” I whispered, barely audible.
“Fire escape,” Deacon instructed, his tone suddenly sharp. “The metal dispatch box. You need it.”
I didn’t argue. My window faced the grimy alleyway, a rusted fire ladder descending into the gloom. I grabbed my small backpack, shoving my burner phone inside. A faint click from the hallway door, followed by the sickening crunch of wood splintering.
Just as Big Fluker and his crew burst through my ruined doorway, I was already scrambling down the ladder, the cold metal biting into my hands.
“She’s gone!” a gruff voice yelled from above.
Rain-slicked bricks blurred as I navigated the narrow alley, the sounds of shouting fading behind me. Every shadow seemed to hold a threat. Evelyn’s smear campaign was working. These weren’t just common thugs; these were syndicate enforcers, hardened men who saw a federal informant as easy prey and a legitimate target.
My lungs burned. I didn’t stop until I reached Martin Luther King Jr. Drive, the neon glow of a 24-hour diner piercing the oppressive darkness.
Deacon Thomas sat in a booth near the back, nursing a cup of lukewarm tea. He looked frail, his shoulders hunched, but his eyes were alert.
“They didn’t catch you,” he observed, not a question.
I slid into the booth opposite him, heart still hammering. “They trashed the place. Looking for the papers.”
Deacon nodded slowly, pushing a heavy, locked metal dispatch box across the table. It was old, scarred, with a faint smell of rust and aged paper.
“This is it,” he said, his voice low. “The original physical carbon copy of the 2014 Vault Covenant.”
My fingers brushed the cold metal. The weight felt immense, not just from its physical presence, but from what it represented. My leverage. My freedom. My father’s silent revenge.
“Evelyn will stop at nothing, Nia,” Deacon warned, his gaze unwavering. “She will eliminate you before the syndicate arbitration panel convenes. She will make sure this document never sees the light of day.”
A waitress, oblivious, refilled Deacon’s tea. The mundane clatter of plates and the aroma of cheap coffee filled the air, a stark contrast to the life-or-death reality settling over me.
“Where do I go?” I asked, looking out at the flashing city lights. “They’re hunting me.”
Deacon took a slow sip of his tea. “There are safe-havens, child. Places even Evelyn’s reach can’t penetrate. For a price, of course.”
He reached into his coat and pulled out a worn, folded map of Atlanta. It was old, marked with faded symbols I didn’t recognize.
“But first,” he added, his eyes meeting mine, “you need to understand how deep this goes. And how much Evelyn stands to lose.”
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