Chapter 15 - The Race Against Time
I burst out of the revolving glass doors of the First National Bank into the biting Cleveland air, clutching the leather binder under my coat like a stolen trophy. Rain had begun to pour, slicking the concrete sidewalks and turning the downtown street into a blurry smear of red taillights and neon signs.
My sedan was parked three levels down in the subterranean garage. I knew if I went down there, Marcus or his men would be waiting to intercept me at the elevators. I needed to blend into the city crowd, find a secure phone, and reach the only person who could help me protect Clara.
Running across the wet pavement, my orthopedic shoes slipping on the slick tiles, I ducked into the crowded lobby of a historic downtown hotel across the street. The air inside was warm, smelling of polished mahogany and expensive floral arrangements. I collapsed into a corner velvet armchair behind a towering decorative palm tree, gasping for breath, my chest heaving as my surgical scars burned with white-hot agony.
I pulled my burner phone out of my pocket—the encrypted line Agent Miller had given me years ago for emergency contact. My hands shook so violently I dropped the phone twice before managing to punch in her direct extension.
It rang once. Twice. Three times.
“This is Special Agent Miller, FBI field office. Leave a message.”
"Miller, pick up! God damn it, pick up!" I hissed into the receiver, keeping my voice low. "It’s Evelyn Vance. Marcus Vance is alive. He’s running the global board, and they are coming for Clara. They engineered her lineage—they’re coming for her bloodline!"
I paused, listening to the dead air of the voicemail recording, realizing she wasn't picking up. Her phone was likely locked in an evidence locker or disabled by the very bomb threat Marcus had bragged about.
"If you get this," I whispered, tears mixing with the rainwater dripping from my hair, "tell Clara I love her. Tell her I went to finish what I started."
I hung up the phone. I couldn't run to the police; the syndicate's tentacles reached deep into municipal and federal payrolls alike. I had the original research binder, the cassette tape, and the undeniable proof of what they had done to Arthur and what they planned to do to Clara. As long as I had it, Clara and Maya were targets.
I looked down at the binder in my hands. There was only one way to end this war once and for all. I had to draw Marcus out into the open on my own terms, in a place where no syndicate money or corrupt official could cover up the truth.
I pulled up my contacts list and dialed a number I hadn't called in three years—a local investigative journalist named Liam Hayes who had spent a decade trying to crack the international fertility black market.
"Liam," I said the moment the line picked up. "You want the biggest story of the century? Meet me at the abandoned Lakeside lighthouse outside Columbus in two hours. Bring your cameras, bring your recorders, and bring every copy of the data you have."
"Evelyn?" Liam’s voice crackled over the line, laced with shock. "Where have you been? The feds said you dropped off the grid—"
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"No time to explain," I interrupted, my voice sharpening with desperate urgency. "If I'm not there by sunset, publish the files online. Everything I'm about to send you. Tell Clara I’m sorry."
I tapped the screen, uploading the digital scans of the vault binder directly to Liam’s secure drop-box, and severed the connection. Then, I stepped out from behind the palm tree, pulled my hood over my head, and walked out into the stormy Ohio rain.
