Chapter 3 - The Parking Garage Encounter and the Hidden Gun
I absolutely could not process his terrifying words,
my overwhelmed brain refusing stubbornly to connect the humble man holding a wet mop with the dark confession of a massive criminal enterprise.
"Your money?"
I stammered weakly,
instinctively backing my chair away until it hit the metal edge of the desk.
"Whitmore Industries secretly washes dirty funds for a lot of very powerful people,
Claire,"
Ethan explained patiently,
his deep voice remaining perfectly calm,
almost unsettlingly soothing in the quiet office.
"Richard Hale is the primary architect of this entire laundering operation,
but lately,
he has gotten incredibly greedy,
creating ghost companies to slowly siphon off my agreed percentages."
I stared blankly at him,
realizing with sheer terror that I was no longer dealing with simple corporate white collar fraud,
but with dangerous,
violent,
and ruthless organized crime.
"I am going straight to the police,"
I declared foolishly,
though my shaking voice lacked any real or believable conviction.
Ethan smiled warmly,
a terrifying,
wolfish,
and knowing grin that made my warm blood run absolutely cold.
"The local police work directly for me,
too,
Claire."
He smoothly picked up the handle of his yellow mop bucket,
the flawless illusion of the humble janitor returning seamlessly in a single instant.
"Go home right now,
forget everything you saw on that computer screen,
and let me personally handle Richard Hale."
I grabbed my heavy winter coat,
not needing to be told twice by a mafia boss,
and practically ran frantically toward the glowing elevator doors.
The slow descent to the underground corporate parking garage felt exactly like falling down a dark,
bottomless,
and terrifying pit.
When the heavy metal doors finally opened,
the massive concrete cavern was dimly lit by flickering lights,
smelling strongly of stale exhaust fumes and cold damp earth.
I walked as quickly as possible toward my old and reliable sedan,
the sharp sound of my cheap heels echoing loudly,
much too loudly,
in the terrifyingly empty and silent space.
Suddenly,
I clearly heard a second distinct set of heavy footsteps,
deliberate,
menacing,
and echoing closely behind me.
I immediately quickened my frantic pace,
fumbling desperately in my dark purse for my metal car keys,
my cold hands shaking violently with mounting panic.
A massive black SUV abruptly pulled out aggressively from a hidden parking spot,
its large tires screeching loudly against the smooth concrete,
completely blocking my only path to my car.
Two large men wearing perfectly tailored dark suits stepped out quickly,
their harsh faces completely obscured by the deep garage shadows,
their violent intentions unmistakably hostile and clear.
"Miss Morgan,"
the taller one of them said,
his rough voice sounding raspy,
cold,
and incredibly cruel.
"Mister Hale would very much like the confidential documents you printed earlier today."
I took a terrified step backward,
my racing heart hammering painfully against my fragile ribs,
looking around desperately and hopelessly for any sign of help.
"I do not have anything on me,"
I lied terribly,
clutching my leather bag tightly to my chest as a weak shield.
The shorter man reached casually inside his expensive dark jacket,
pulling out a heavy,
black,
and silenced pistol,
pointing it directly and steady at my pale face.
"We were not politely asking you,
sweetheart,"
he sneered maliciously.
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Before I could even open my mouth to scream for help,
the incredibly sharp sound of breaking glass completely shattered the tense silence.
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