Chapter 14 - The Confrontation in the Concrete Jungle
The address led me to a nondescript warehouse district on the edge of the city,
where the buildings looked like giant,
rusted tombs.
I parked two blocks away and walked the rest of the distance,
staying in the shadows.
The air smelled of salt and industrial grease.
My heart was a drum,
beating out a rhythm of vengeance.
I found the unit,
the metal door slightly ajar,
a sliver of yellow light spilling out onto the cracked pavement.
I slipped inside,
the darkness of the entryway swallowing me whole.
I could hear voices coming from the back,
near a small office.
"The plane is ready?"
It was Ethan.
His voice sounded different—harsh,
unfiltered,
stripped of the charm he used to mask his rot.
"Nine p.m.,"
a second voice replied.
"But the woman is still a problem.
If she talks to the feds,
the whole Chicago network goes down."
"She won't talk,"
Ethan said,
and I could hear the sound of a suitcase being zipped.
"I’ve left enough evidence to keep her tied up in legal battles for a decade.
By the time she proves she’s innocent,
I’ll be a ghost in South America."
I stepped into the light of the office doorway,
my shadow stretching long and dark across the floor.
"Ghosts don't have bank accounts,
Ethan."
He spun around,
the color draining from his face as if I had pulled a plug.
He was holding a thick,
leather-bound book—the ledgers.
His companion,
a thick-necked man in a suit,
reached for his waistband,
but I held up the silver flash drive.
"I wouldn't,"
I said,
my voice as cold as the lake water.
"I’ve already uploaded the contents of this drive to a cloud server.
If I don't check in with my lawyer every thirty minutes,
it gets sent directly to the FBI,
the IRS,
and the Board of Directors at Vance Global."
The man in the suit looked at Ethan,
his eyes narrowing.
"You said she was a romantic,
Ethan.
You didn't say she was a strategist."
Ethan took a step toward me,
his hands trembling.
"Mabel,
let’s talk about this.
You don't want to do this.
We can go together.
I have enough money for both of us to live like royalty."
I looked at the man I had loved for a decade,
and I felt nothing but a deep,
abiding disgust.
"I’d rather live in a cell than a palace with you,
Ethan.
Give me the ledgers."
"I can't do that,"
he whispered.
"They’re my life."
"No,"
I corrected him,
taking a step into the room.
May you like
"They’re your death warrant.
And I’m the one signing it."
