Chapter 7 - The Empty Desk
The black sedan kicked up gravel as we pulled into the deserted parking lot of Vance Real Estate Development. The building stood tall and ominous against the overcast afternoon sky, its tinted glass windows reflecting the gray clouds like a pair of blind eyes.
I killed the engine before the tires had even finished rolling, throwing my door open and bolting toward the glass entrance. Mom stayed in the back seat under the watch of the investigator, but my mind was entirely focused on the top-floor executive suite.
The front doors were unlocked—not because they were welcoming visitors, but because they had been abandoned in a panic.
I rushed into the lobby, my tactical boots echoing sharply against the polished marble floor. The reception desk was bare. No computers, no greeting cards, no administrative staff. Just an empty counter and a scattered handful of shredder confetti fluttering gently to the carpet.
"Clear!" shouted a local police officer who had arrived ahead of us, stepping out from the elevator bay with his service weapon drawn at a low ready. "Office suite 400 is stripped clean, Reynolds. They left twenty minutes ago."
I pushed past him, marching straight down the hallway toward Jonathan Vance’s private office.
The heavy mahogany double doors stood wide open. Inside, the room looked like a hurricane had ripped through it. Drawers had been pulled out and dumped upside down on the Persian rug. The wall-safe behind the executive painting was blown open, its thick steel door hanging crookedly on a single hinge, empty.
I stepped over a pile of shredded tax documents, my eyes scanning the room for anything they might have missed in their hurried escape.
On the center of the mahogany desk lay a single, un-shredded sheet of paper held down by a heavy brass paperweight.
I walked over and picked it up.
May you like
It was a printed confirmation receipt from the municipal airstrip, timestamped twenty minutes prior. Destination: Cozumel, Mexico. And scrawled across the bottom in hurried, angry handwriting were three words: You’re too late, soldier.
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