Chapter 7: Narrow Escape

I slammed on the brakes, skidding to a halt two houses down from my own. The front door was barely hanging on its hinges, splinters fanned out around the lock.

A dark SUV with tinted windows was parked diagonally across my driveway. Three figures in dark clothing were kicking at the front door, their faces obscured by caps.

“Stop right there! Police!” one of them yelled, not to me, but into the house, obviously trying to intimidate. They were Soria’s men, but they were acting like law enforcement.

My heart pounded against my ribs. Chloe.

I scanned the house frantically. The back. The fire escape.

I threw the car into reverse, peeling away from the scene. Elena gasped, her hands flying to the dashboard.

“She went to the back,” I muttered, more to myself than to her. “She knows the escape.”

I drove around the block, taking a circuitous route to the alley behind my house. The roar of my engine felt deafening in the quiet residential street.

The alley was narrow, garbage cans spilling over. I saw it: the old, rusty fire escape ladder hanging down, swaying slightly.

Chloe.

She emerged from the shadows of the alley, her face tear-streaked, clutching a small backpack. She looked like she’d seen a ghost.

“Dad!” she sobbed, running towards the car.

I threw open the passenger door. “Get in! Quickly!”

She scrambled into the back seat, collapsing in a heap. Elena reached back, a hand on Chloe’s shoulder, a gesture of unexpected comfort.

I pulled away, glancing in the rearview mirror. The SUV was now pulling around to the front. We’d escaped by seconds.

“Are you hurt?” I asked Chloe, my voice hoarse.

She shook her head, burying her face in her hands. “They… they were going to kill you, Dad. They said you were stealing from their boss.”

Marcus’s lie had almost worked.

I drove to the old bakery basement, a cold, damp, forgotten space, but safe for now. I settled Chloe there, instructing her to stay hidden.

Then, I had a meeting to arrange.

Later that evening, in a desolate alleyway behind an abandoned warehouse, I met with the leader of Soria’s collection crew. He was a stocky man with a scar running through his eyebrow. His name was Ruiz.

He didn’t look happy. Two of his men flanked him.

“You’re Arthur Coyle?” Ruiz asked, his voice gravelly. “Word is, you’re skimming from Soria. You got two hours to explain before things get real ugly.”

I pulled out a single sheet of paper from my pocket. It was a partial audit, showing a distinct pattern of cash inflows to Soria’s general ledger, and then a sudden, unexplained drop of $150,000, coinciding with a large deposit into Marcus’s personal account.

“Marcus Delancy,” I stated, my voice even. “Your client. He took it. All of it.”

Ruiz snatched the paper, his eyes scanning the numbers. His expression didn’t change, but a flicker of something — suspicion, perhaps — crossed his face.

“This is a warning,” I said, my gaze steady. “Before Soria finds out you let his money walk out the door in Marcus’s pocket.”

He crumpled the paper, but not before his eyes had absorbed every number. He didn’t answer, but his men exchanged quick, uneasy glances.

The message had been delivered.