Chapter 8 - The Obsidian Ledger
The abandoned warehouse loomed out of the swirling snow like a concrete monolith, its broken windows dark and jagged against the winter sky.
Marcus killed the town car’s engine two blocks away, cutting the headlights as we rolled quietly into an alley behind a row of rusted shipping containers.
“Stay in the vehicle, sir,” Marcus whispered, checking the slide of his sidearm. “Let me sweep the perimeter first.”
“No,” I replied, opening my door and stepping out into the freezing slush. “We don't have time for a perimeter sweep. If those men realized I slipped out of the hospital, they’ll be moving their operation before dawn.”
We moved together through the howling wind, hugging the shadowed wall of the warehouse until we reached a heavy metal side door held ajar by a wooden wedge. Faint, amber light spilled out from the interior, accompanied by the low, steady hum of computer servers and generators.
We slipped inside, finding ourselves in a cavernous, high-ceilinged room filled with racks of blinking mainframe hardware and temporary workstations.
In the center of the room, standing over a desk illuminated by twin computer monitors, was a man in an expensive dark suit—and beside him stood the scar-faced man I had seen in the hospital corridor.
“The hospital extraction failed,” the scar-faced man was saying, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. “Vale intervened. He smashed the door and jumped out a third-story window before we could secure the floor.”
The man in the suit turned slowly. Even from twenty feet away, I recognized him. Arthur Sterling—head of the Witmore Foundation’s oversight board and one of the most prominent philanthropists in Chicago.
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“Gideon Vale,” Sterling murmured, a cold, dangerous smile touching his lips. “Always playing the hero. But he doesn't realize what he’s holding onto. The girl has the backup drive stitched into the lining of that ridiculous stuffed rabbit she carries everywhere.”
My blood ran cold.
