Chapter 3 - The Live Trace
The next afternoon, the clock on the dashboard of my sedan ticked to 3:12 PM. I was parked down the street from the safehouse, an earbud firmly planted in my left ear, linked directly to Marcus’s server array.
"Signal is initializing, Elias," Marcus’s voice crackled through the comms. "The proxy is bouncing. Standby... 3:15 PM. Connection established. The burner is live. I'm patching you into the audio feed now."
A heavy, distorted hiss filled my earbud, followed by the metallic, modified drone I had heard from beneath the bed the day before.
"Have you made up your mind, Grace?" the blackmailer demanded, the tone dripping with a sickening, casual sadism. "Friday is approaching quickly. I see your husband left the house in his usual shiny Mercedes this morning. It would be a shame if he had to trade that luxury car for an orange jumpsuit."
Through the line, I heard my wife’s shaky breath. She was standing in our kitchen, holding her phone with white knuckles. "I told you... I don't know anything about a ledger. Elias is an investor. He doesn't keep encrypted drives in the house. Please, leave us alone. Take whatever money you want from my personal savings account, just don't ruin his life."
"Money?" The blackmailer laughed, the electronic filter turning it into a robotic screech. "We don't want your petty savings, girl. We want the Harrison crown. You have until tomorrow night to find that drive, or we send the first file to the authorities. And maybe... we’ll pay you a personal visit while your husband is away at one of his 'business dinners.'"
Grace let out a stifled cry, dropping the phone. The line disconnected with a sharp pop.
"Marcus!" I roared into the comms, throwing the sedan into drive, the tires screaming against the pavement. "Did you get the coordinate lock?"
"Trace complete, boss!" Marcus shouted over the sound of his keyboard. "The signal didn't come from the Bianchi estate. The physical terminal is an unlisted high-rise penthouse on Wacker Drive. Registered to a corporate entity called Apex Holdings."
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"Apex Holdings is a shell company for the district attorney's private task force," I muttered, my blood turning to liquid fire as the puzzle pieces finally slammed together. It wasn't a rival mobster. It wasn't a street thug. It was a corrupt faction within the justice system itself—men who wanted my empire but couldn't get a legal warrant, so they resorted to terrorizing a civilian woman to force a confession.
"They're using badges to mask a shake-down," I hissed, turning the steering wheel violently toward downtown Chicago. "Assemble the heavy assault team, Marcus. We’re going to pay a visit to the high-rise. Let's see how brave these wolves are when the sheep turns out to be a dragon."
