Chapter 5 - The Hunt for Logan Pierce
Across the city, in the damp, rat-infested basement of the South Loop storage facility, the reality of absolute destitution crashed down on Logan Pierce like a physical blow.
The steel door of Unit 402 hung open. The heavy biometric safe, which had cost him ten thousand dollars to install, sat wide open, its interior illuminated by a single, flickering bulb hanging from the concrete ceiling.
It was empty.
Not a single bond. Not a single diamond. Just a bare steel shelf, and a small, folded piece of thick white cardstock resting in the center.
Logan’s hands shook uncontrollably as he reached in and picked up the card. The handwriting was elegant, precise, and entirely familiar. It was Rachel’s.
“A man who steals from his wife should make sure she doesn't know where he hides his teeth. Checkmate. - R.”
"No," Logan whispered, his voice cracking into a high, hysterical sob. "No, no, no!"
He threw the card across the room, kicking the heavy steel safe with his polished shoe, instantly breaking his toe. He screamed in pain, collapsing onto the dirty concrete floor, clutching his foot. He looked like a wounded animal. The bespoke suit he had been wearing for three days was wrinkled, stained with sweat and dirt. He hadn't eaten. He hadn't slept. Every shadow in the building looked like a federal agent; every sound sounded like a cartel hitman.
He pulled his burner phone from his pocket—a cheap, prepaid device he had bought with the last two hundred dollars in his wallet at a gas station. He had tried to call his friends. The country club elites, the venture capitalists, the men who used to drink his Scotch and smoke his cigars on the balcony of his penthouse.
None of them answered. They had all seen the news. Logan Pierce was radioactive.
His phone buzzed in his hand, causing him to jump violently. It was an unknown number.
Desperation overrode his caution. He answered it, pressing the cheap plastic to his ear. "Hello?" he croaked.
"Mr. Pierce," a smooth, heavily accented voice said on the other end. It was not the FBI. The accent was distinctly Colombian. "You have caused our mutual friends a great deal of trouble this week."
Logan’s blood turned to ice. His breath hitched in his throat. "I... I didn't say anything! It was my wife! Vanessa is the one who brought the feds down! I didn't know about the ledger, I swear to God!"
"Vanessa is currently residing in a federal box," the voice replied calmly. "You are not. Our employers are not interested in the nuances of domestic disputes, Mr. Pierce. They are interested in the eighty million dollars that was frozen by the Department of Justice. You have forty-eight hours to return the capital, or we will demonstrate what happens to liabilities."
The line went dead.
Logan dropped the phone, staring at the blank screen. Eighty million dollars. He couldn't even afford a hot meal, let alone eighty million dollars. He was trapped between the crushing weight of the federal government and the lethal certainty of the cartel.
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There was only one person who had outsmarted them all. One person who had the ledger, the evidence, and the power to negotiate. The woman he had tied to a bed and left to burn.
Logan picked up the phone, his fingers dialing the only number he knew by heart.
