Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Architecture
Arthur Sterling didn't wait for an invitation to leave; he turned on his heel and strode out of the office, his guards keeping pace behind him like obedient hounds. The heavy frosted glass door swung shut, leaving Marcus and me in the suffocating silence of the drafting room.
"He knows," Marcus whispered, wiping a hand across his forehead. "Did you see his face when he looked at the desk? He’s been tearing this office apart for weeks looking for that second drive."
"He’s looking in the wrong place," I said, my mind racing through the tactical implications. "Sterling thinks the drive is here in the office. But if Julian gave one to Marcus and told the kids to guard the other, it's not in a filing cabinet. It's back at my house."
"With the twins," Marcus realized, his eyes widening with horror. "Ryker, if Sterling knows about the backup, he won't stop at legal threats. That man has ties to people who make problems disappear permanently—just like Julian."
I pulled out my phone and dialed Marco’s direct line. It rang twice before clicking over to voicemail.
A cold knot formed in my stomach. I dialed again, setting it to speaker. Still voicemail.
"Marcus," I ordered, turning toward the door. "Stay here. Lock the doors, and don't open them for anyone badge or no badge unless I text you the specific code."
I didn't wait for his reply. I sprinted down the corridor, bypassed the slow-moving elevators, and took the concrete service stairs three at a time down to the underground parking garage. My black armored SUV was idling in its reserved slot, Marco’s backup driver sitting behind the wheel.
"Get me back to the Gold Coast estate," I commanded, sliding into the back seat and slamming the heavy door. "Now."
As the vehicle roared out of the subterranean garage and accelerated into the afternoon traffic, I analyzed the chessboard. Sterling wasn't just a corrupt corporate lawyer; he was the legal architect of a multi-million-dollar theft disguised as a natural death. If he realized the backup drive was in the possession of two five-year-old children sitting in my house, he wouldn't wait for a court date.
By the time the SUV pulled through the iron gates of my estate twenty minutes later, the house looked entirely normal. The security detail was positioned at the perimeter. The heavy oak front door was closed.
I jumped out of the car before it came to a complete stop and vaulted up the stone steps. I punched the security code into the keypad, threw the door open, and stepped into the grand foyer.
"Marco!" I called out, my voice echoing off the marble floors.
No answer.
I drew my sidearm, checking the chamber with a crisp, mechanical click, and moved swiftly toward the guest wing where the twins had been settled. The hallway was dead silent. The door to Owen and Lily’s room was cracked open by an inch.
I kicked the door wide, weapon raised, ready for anything.
The room was empty. The beds were unmade, toys scattered across the carpet. On the bedside table sat a small, worn stuffed bear—abandoned.
And sitting on the center of the white duvet was a folded note written on expensive stationary bearing the letterhead of Sterling & Croft.
I stepped forward, picked up the note, and read the single line written inside:
May you like
An eye for an archive, Mr. Steel. Bring the drive to the old boathouse at Burnham Harbor by midnight, or your new pets will be returned to the airport.
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