Chapter 2 - THEY KNEW EXACTLY HOW TO MAKE ME DISAPPEAR
I woke on concrete.
My first thought was that my left arm had gone numb.
My second was that I could smell coffee.
Not Damian’s expensive Colombian roast.
Cheap gas-station coffee.
Burned.
Bitter.
I opened my eyes.
The room had no windows.
Concrete wall.
Metal shelving.
A folding chair.
Industrial light overhead.
My wrists were bound in front of me with plastic restraints.
A man sat near the door.
Baseball cap.
Black jacket.
No mask.
That surprised me.
“You awake?”
I did not answer.
He looked younger than I expected.
Maybe thirty.
Crooked nose.
Wedding ring.
His accent was Chicago.
Not dramatic movie Chicago.
South Side.
Ordinary.
“Water?”
I stared.
He held up a bottle.
“I’m not poisoning you.”
“Comforting.”
He almost smiled.
“Secretary has jokes.”
“Executive secretary.”
“Sorry.”
“You should be.”
He set the bottle down.
I looked around.
No obvious camera.
One door.
Vent near ceiling.
My shoes were gone.
My blouse sleeve had been torn near one shoulder.
I remembered hands.
A cloth.
Someone saying, “Easy.”
Then nothing.
“What time is it?”
He checked his watch.
“Little after nine thirty.”
“Where’s my phone?”
He laughed.
“You think I’m telling you?”
“I think if you wanted me dead, you wouldn’t be explaining water.”
His expression changed slightly.
“Damian likes you.”
“That supposed to matter?”
“To him.”
He stood.
“Boss says keep you quiet.”
“Which boss?”
No answer.
He opened the door.
Before leaving, he looked back.
“One piece of advice.”
“I’m collecting them.”
“Don’t make us move you again.”
The door shut.
A lock clicked.
I stared at the vent.
Damian.
If he knew I was gone, he would do one of two things.
The man Chicago feared would react.
The man I worked for would calculate.
I needed the second one.
I tested the restraints.
Tight.
Not impossible.
I stopped.
Panic wastes information.
Fine.
I would gather information.
The room vibrated faintly every few minutes.
Freight?
Train?
Heavy machinery?
I listened.
At 9:42, I heard a horn.
Long.
Then two short blasts.
Marine?
Rail?
Could be either.
The air smelled like oil and river water beneath the coffee.
Pier Nine entered my mind.
I had handled enough terminal schedules to know the area.
But kidnappers did not usually store hostages inside the property they demanded.
Too simple.
A phone rang outside.
The man answered.
“Yeah.”
Pause.
“No.”
Pause.
“He called Ferraro?”
My body went still.
Another pause.
“Well, that’s not good.”
The call ended.
I heard footsteps.
Then another voice.
Older.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Boss said Ferraro would take the heat.”
“He still will.”
The first man said, “Cross knows those people.”
“Then Cross should know better than to believe any of them.”
A chair scraped.
The older voice continued.
“Ten o’clock. Papers or no papers.”
“And if no papers?”
Silence.
The younger man said, “We weren’t told to—”
“You were told to follow instructions.”
I stopped breathing.
Then the older voice said something I could barely hear.
“Get the laptop first.”
My laptop?
I had left my work laptop upstairs.
Or had I?
I replayed the evening.
I carried a folder.
Purse.
No laptop.
Cross executive machines never left the office unless authorized.
Why would kidnappers want it?
Upstairs, Damian was asking the same question.
Luke’s team traced the camera shutdown.
Credentials belonged to building maintenance supervisor Gerald Moss.
Gerald had been home in Naperville when the feed died.
His login originated from a terminal inside Cross Tower.
Someone used his credentials.
Luke said, “We have footage of everyone leaving between eight and nine.”
“Anyone unusual?”
“No.”
“Then look for usual.”
Damian stood beside a wall of monitors in the private security room.
Most people believed Cross Tower security existed to protect executives.
It also protected a family that had spent decades making enemies.
Damian inherited the system.
He hated why it existed.
He still used it.
Luke brought up access records.
At 8:46, a service elevator opened on B3.
Keycard:
FACILITIES MASTER.
The card had been checked out that morning.
Signature:
M. Carver.
Damian stared.
“Miles?”
Miles Carver had worked for Cross Strategic Holdings for twenty-two years.
Corporate risk.
Internal investigations.
His father had served Damian’s father.
“Where is he?”
“Supposedly at the board dinner.”
“Find him.”
Luke made two calls.
Then his face changed.
“He never arrived.”
Damian’s phone rang.
Unknown.
He answered.
The distorted voice returned.
“Forty minutes.”
“I spoke to Ferraro.”
“Congratulations.”
“He says you’re not his.”
“Maybe Anton lies.”
“Maybe.”
Damian leaned against the desk.
“Rachel’s worth more alive.”
“Not after ten.”
“That is an expensive assumption.”
The caller laughed.
“You still think this is negotiation.”
“It is.”
“How?”
“Because if you wanted her dead, you wouldn’t keep calling.”
Silence.
Damian continued.
“You want me hurried.”
Nothing.
“You want Pier Nine signed before I inspect something.”
The voice changed.
Barely.
“Thirty-nine minutes.”
The call ended.
Luke said, “You hit something.”
“Find every document tied to Pier Nine.”
“Tonight?”
“Everything.”
Legal pulled the current transfer restrictions.
Debt covenants.
Environmental agreements.
Union obligations.
Historic ownership.
No transfer package existed.
No pending offer.
Nothing waiting for signature.
Then Damian remembered the folder on his desk.
The one Rachel had collected before leaving.
He opened it.
Inside were Friday’s legal-review materials.
Rachel had organized them.
Pier Nine was tab seven.
Not because of a transfer.
Because outside counsel had flagged unusual payments from a terminal-services vendor.
Lakefront Municipal Services.
$6.4 million over eighteen months.
Damian looked at Luke.
“Rachel built this packet?”
“Yes.”
“Who knew?”
“Legal. Rachel. You. Me.”
“And Victor.”
Luke went still.
Victor Cross.
Damian’s uncle.
Vice chairman of Cross Strategic Holdings.
The man who had helped raise Damian after his father was murdered.
The man who spent thirty years teaching him that family survived because family did not ask certain questions.
At that exact moment, my captors opened the door.
The older man walked in.
I recognized him.
Not personally.
From Cross Tower.
Miles Carver.
Corporate risk director.
He had held elevators for me.
Sent Christmas baskets.
Once brought homemade biscotti to the executive assistants.
“Hello, Rachel.”
My mouth went dry.
“Miles.”
He closed the door.
“You were not supposed to see me.”
“Then you should have worn a mask.”
He smiled sadly.
“Still sharp.”
“What do you want?”
“Where is the duplicate?”
“What duplicate?”
“The Lakefront file.”
I stared at him.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He crouched.
“Rachel.”
His voice became almost kind.
“That answer decides whether tonight gets worse.”
I thought of tab seven.
Legal review.
Lakefront Municipal Services.
Then I remembered something small.
Tuesday afternoon, I had scanned a damaged invoice because the original had handwritten notes.
The copier automatically created a temporary archive file.
I had emailed it to myself to rebuild the packet.
Miles knew.
Or suspected.
May you like
The kidnapping had never been primarily about Pier Nine.
They wanted whatever I had seen in the paperwork before Damian could see it too.
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