Chapter 4 - The Black-Market Ledger
The heavy oak front door shuddered under a sudden, violent kick. The brass security chain I had slid into place snapped with a metallic shriek, and the door swung wide open, slamming against the interior drywall.
I stumbled backward, tripping over the edge of the hallway runner, and hit the floor hard. Pain exploded across my fresh surgical incision, stealing the breath from my lungs. I gasped, clutching my stomach as two masked men in tactical gear stepped over the threshold, their boots tracking muddy water onto my clean carpet.
"Clear," the taller one grunted, his voice distorted by a throat mic.
He swept his tactical flashlight across the dim hallway, the beam cutting through the dust motes until it locked directly onto my face. He holstered his sidearm, walked over, and hauled me up by my upper arms with brutal efficiency, dumping me unceremoniously onto the floral sofa.
"Evelyn Vance," the man said, lowering his ski mask just enough to reveal a jagged scar running from his jawline to his lip. "You’re harder to kill than a cockroach. Dr. Thorne’s hospital surgery should have finished you off."
"Who... who are you?" I wheezed, tasting copper in my mouth. "How did you find me? The police are protecting me—the FBI—"
"The FBI doesn't know half of what’s going on," a calm, smooth voice echoed from the doorway.
A third man stepped into the house, brushing rainwater off the shoulders of an expensive Italian wool overcoat. He looked like a university professor or a wealthy corporate executive—silver hair combed straight back, rimless glasses reflecting the dim living room lamp, and an air of absolute, terrifying control.
"Allow me to introduce myself," the man said, offering a polite, chilling smile. "My name is Julian Vance. No relation, I assure you. Though sharing a last name with you is an unfortunate coincidence."
I stared at him, my mind racing through the federal case files Agent Miller had summarized. "You... you’re the head of the syndicate. The man running the international genetic brokerage."
"Brokerage sounds so crude," Julian replied, walking over to examine the canvas bag of newborn diapers still sitting on the metal chair. He picked up the blue knitted cap, turning it over in his hands with mild curiosity. "We prefer to think of ourselves as custodians of human potential. People like you, Evelyn—desperate, discarded by society, invisible to the world—you make wonderful, compliant little nodes in our distribution network."
"Distribution network?" I spat, the pain in my abdomen momentarily overshadowed by pure rage. "You stole my daughter’s embryo. You sold a fake pregnancy to a dying old woman for eighty thousand dollars."
Julian laughed softly, tossing the blue cap back onto the chair. "We didn't sell you a fake pregnancy, Evelyn. We implanted a viable specimen. The fact that your primitive, decrepit biology couldn't sustain it is hardly our fault. Nature has a way of weeding out the weak."
He leaned in close, his breath smelling faintly of scotch and wintermint.
"What is our problem, however, is that your clumsy attempt at motherhood triggered a federal audit of our entire North American supply chain. Your daughter’s clinic was audited. Our shell corporation in Toronto was seized. And now, my investors are very, very upset."
"I told the police nothing," I lied, my voice shaking. "I don't know anything about your operations."
Julian smiled, shaking his head slowly. "You’re a retired librarian, Evelyn. You spent forty years cataloging books. Do you really think I believe you didn't keep a paper trail? Where is the physical ledger?"
"What ledger?"
"The encrypted flash drive and the paper notebook where you recorded every wire transfer, every encrypted email address, and every name of our clinic liaisons in Ohio. You thought you were playing detective, keeping receipts to protect yourself. Hand it over, and maybe we let you live out the rest of your miserable house arrest in peace."
Before I could answer, a loud, urgent beeping sound began to echo from my ankle.
It wasn't the low-battery warning of the GPS monitor. It was the high-frequency emergency panic signal—the exact signal that transmitted my real-time GPS coordinates directly to the county sheriff’s dispatch and Agent Miller’s federal terminal.
May you like
Julian’s smile vanished. He exchanged a sharp look with the scarred mercenary by the door.
"She triggered a beacon," Julian hissed, his cultured demeanor instantly evaporating into cold malice. "Search the house. Tear the walls apart if you have to. Find that ledger now."
