Chapter 2 - THE MULTI-MILLION DOLLAR BOUNTY
A CITY OBSESSEDBy the third day following Russell Morrison's miraculous survival, New York City was gripped by a frenzy.
The story had leaked to the press, and it had mutated into a modern-day fairy tale with a dark, cynical edge. The headlines were relentless:
"THE BAREFOOT ANGEL OF THE GOLDEN SPOON: WHERE IS SHE?"
"BILLIONAIRE OFFERS $5 MILLION REWARD FOR CHILD WHO SAVED HIS LIFE."
"THE CITY THAT LEFT A HERO IN THE RAIN."
Every talk show, news anchor, and social media influencer was talking about the anonymous five-year-old girl. The Golden Spoon had been forced to close its doors temporarily due to a massive influx of protestors throwing old shoes at the windows and demanding the firing of Tom, the manager.
But inside the penthouse office of Morrison Development, the atmosphere was deadly serious.
Russell sat behind his massive mahogany desk, a medical heart-rate monitor strapped to his wrist beneath his crisp white shirt. He looked older, the lines around his eyes etched deeper by sleeplessness and guilt.
"We have over ten thousand leads, Russell," Vance Sterling said, rubbing his temple as he dropped a massive stack of files onto the desk. "Half of them are grifters trying to dye their kids' hair blond. The other half are well-meaning citizens reporting every homeless child they see between here and Brooklyn. But none of them fit the profile. No one has seen a girl with an infant."
"What about the restaurant manager?" Russell asked, his voice low and dangerous. "Has he talked?"
"Tom is terrified. He swears he didn't see where she went after she left. He claims he was just 'following restaurant policy regarding vagrants.' I’ve made sure he’ll never work in the hospitality industry again, but that doesn't bring us closer to the girl."
Just then, the private line on Russell's desk rang. It was a secure number known only to his highest-level security personnel. Russell snatched the receiver.
"Morrison."
"Mr. Morrison, my name is Marcus," a voice slithered through the line, heavy with a thick Brooklyn accent. "I’ve got what you're looking for. The little blonde girl. And the squeaker she’s been hauling around."
Russell’s grip tightened on the phone so hard his knuckles turned white. "If this is a hoax, I will use my resources to ensure you spend the next thirty years in a federal penitentiary."
"No hoax, billionaire," Marcus laughed nervously. "She’s got a little silver locket around her neck. Inside is a picture of a woman with the name 'Elena' engraved on the back. She’s also got some pretty nasty bruises on her feet from walking on glass the night of your little episode. Do we have a deal, or should I call the news stations instead?"
"Name the price. Name the place," Russell said, his heart hammering against his ribs, the monitor on his wrist beginning to beep warningly.
"Five million. Cash. No cops, no private security. Just you and your lawyer at the abandoned shipping terminal on Pier 42. Midnight tonight. You bring the money, I bring the kid. If I see a single flashing light, the girl goes into the Hudson River. Got it?"
The line went dead.
Russell slammed the phone down and stood up, ignoring the sharp twinge of pain in his chest. "Vance, call the bank. I need five million dollars in cash in bearer bonds and non-sequential bills within the hour."
"Russell, this is a trap," Vance argued, stepping forward, his face pale. "This man is a criminal. You cannot go down to an abandoned pier three days after open-heart surgery to meet an extortionist!"
"That child saved my life when everyone else in that room was waiting for me to die," Russell said, his voice echoing off the glass walls of the skyscraper. "If I have to march into hell itself to pull her out, I will do it. Arrange the cash."
THE PIT OF THE CROWMeanwhile, in the basement of a derelict brownstone in Chinatown, Sylvie was trapped in a nightmare.
Marcus had locked her and Tommy in a small, damp room used for storing illegal contraband. Tommy’s fever had spiked even higher; his little body was shivering violently, and his lips had a faint, terrifying bluish tint.
"Drink this, Tommy, please," Sylvie sobbed, trying to press a small plastic cup of dirty tap water to the baby's lips. He couldn't swallow. He only groaned, a weak, pathetic sound that tore at Sylvie’s soul.
The door flew open, and Marcus strode in, followed by two large, thuggish men wearing heavy leather jackets.
"Alright, princess, it's showtime," Marcus smirked, reaching down to grab Sylvie by the arm.
"No! Let me go!" Sylvie screamed, kicking out with her bare feet, her small toes striking Marcus’s shin.
"Ow! You little rat!" Marcus snarled, backhanding the five-year-old child across the face. The force of the blow sent Sylvie flying into the brick wall, her forehead striking the sharp edge of a wooden crate. Blood began to ooze from a deep cut above her eyebrow, mixing with her tears and dirt.
"Marcus, don't touch her!" one of the thugs muttered, looking uneasy. "The billionaire wants her alive and intact. If she’s busted up, he might not pay."
"She’s fine," Marcus spat, wiping his shin. He walked over to the corner and picked up the bundle containing Tommy. "We take the baby too. It’s our insurance policy. If Morrison tries anything cute with his security team, we hold the kid over the water."
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"Don't hurt Tommy!" Sylvie shrieked, ignoring the blinding pain in her head as she scrambled to her knees. "Take me! Do whatever you want to me! Just don't hurt my brother!"
"Shut up," Marcus growled, throwing a heavy burlap sack over Sylvie's head. "Let's go. It's time to become rich."
