Chapter 4
Z
The barrel of the gun reflected the dim grey light leaking through the garage door. Time seemed to stop. The smell of copper, wet soil, and old gasoline filled my nostrils as terror paralyzed my muscles.
"Don't move," the scarred man said, his voice flat and calm, the tone of a man who did this for a living. "Either of you make a sound, and I end this right here."
Mara let out a small, strangled gasp, pressing herself tighter against the tire of the old station wagon. I stood frozen, the metal USB drive pressed so hard into the palm of my hand that the sharp edges bit into my skin.
A second man stepped into the garage behind him, wiping rain from his forehead. He was younger, broad-shouldered, carrying a heavy iron crowbar.
"Which one is the wife?" the younger man asked, scanning us with cold, clinical eyes.
"The older one," Scar cheek replied, gesturing toward me with the barrel of the gun. "Irene. Zane's loyal, grieving widow." He took a slow step forward, his heavy boots crunching on the gravel floor. "Where is it, Irene? Where's the drive?"
"I... I don't know what you're talking about," I lied, my voice shaking so badly I could barely form the words. "We don't have anything! Zane was just a logistics manager! He died of cancer two days ago!"
Scar cheek chuckled—a dry, humorless sound that sent a shiver through my spine. "Save it, lady. Zane Vance—or Zane Miller, whatever name he was using when he died—was the chief accountant for the Syndicate's Midwest routes. He didn't just steal from Arthur Vance. He stole twenty-two million dollars from people who don't write off bad debts."
Twenty-two million dollars.
The magnitude of the lie hit me like a physical blow. Thirty-four years. I had spent thirty-four years making him coffee, washing his shirts, worrying about our retirement, while he sat on a fortune built on blood and organized crime. My entire life had been an illusion, a carefully constructed theater set designed to keep him hidden in plain sight.
"He didn't give me anything," I choked out, tears burning my eyes. "He left me with nothing but medical bills!"
"Then what's in your hand?" Scar cheek asked, his eyes dropping sharply down to my right fist, which was clenched tightly at my side.
I stiffened. I had tried to hide it, but the tension in my posture gave me away.
"Hand it over," the man said, raising the gun directly at my forehead. "Now."
Mara suddenly let out a sharp cry. "Take it! Just don't shoot us! Irene, give it to him!"
My mind raced. Every instinct screamed at me to surrender the drive, to throw it at his feet and beg for my life. But as I looked into the man's cold, calculating eyes, a terrible, crystal-clear realization washed over me.
They weren't going to let us live.
We knew too much now. We knew about the twenty-two million. We knew about the Syndicate. In their eyes, two defenseless women—a grieving widow and an illegitimate daughter—were loose ends that needed to be cut clean. The moment I handed over that drive, he was going to pull the trigger.
"Irene!" Mara sobbed. "Give it to him!"
"Hold on," I whispered, stepping back half a pace, my heels touching the side of an old, heavy wooden workbench stacked with paint cans, rusty tools, and chemical bottles.
"I'm not going to ask again," Scar cheek warned, taking another step closer, his finger tightening on the trigger.
"Here," I said, slowly extending my hand toward him, opening my fingers to reveal the dark grey metallic drive resting on my palm. "Take it."
He smirked, stepping forward to reach for it.
In that split second, desperation took over. I didn't hand him the drive. Instead, with all the force left in my body, I grabbed a heavy, open can of industrial paint thinner sitting on the workbench beside me and hurled the contents directly into his face.
"AHHHHH!"
The harsh chemical splashed across his eyes and mouth. The man screamed in sudden, agonizing pain, dropping his gun as he clutched his face, blinded and burning.
"Run!" I screamed at Mara.
Before the younger man with the crowbar could react, I grabbed a heavy steel wrench from the bench and swung it blindly. It hit him square in the side of the knee with a sickening CRACK. He roared in pain, collapsing to the floor beside his blinded partner.
Mara didn't hesitate. She scrambled to her feet, tore open the garage's rear side door, and burst out into the storm. I scrambled after her, shoving the USB drive back into my pocket as I hit the blinding, freezing rain.
"This way!" Mara yelled, sprint-running down a narrow alleyway flanked by tall wooden fences.
We ran faster than I thought my sixty-year-old body was capable of. Mud splashed up my legs, rain soaked through my coat, and my chest burned with a terrifying fire. Behind us, shouting and the loud, crashing sound of men pursuing us echoed down the alleyway.
"They're coming!" Mara cried, looking back.
"Don't look back! Just keep running!"
We burst out of the alley onto a quiet residential street. Parked near the corner was a rusted, beat-up blue pickup truck. Mara sprinted straight toward it, pulling a set of keys from her rain-soaked coat pocket.
"Get in!" she screamed, slapping the unlock button.
We threw ourselves into the cab of the truck just as two distant figures rounded the corner of the alley, shouting. Mara slammed her foot on the gas, the engine roaring to life with a violent splutter. She slammed the truck into drive and stomped on the accelerator.
The tires shrieked against the wet asphalt, sending up a spray of water as the truck surged forward, leaving the men and the house behind us in a blur of grey rain.
I collapsed back against the torn vinyl seat, my heart hammering like a war drum against my ribs, my whole body shaking uncontrollably. Beside me, Mara gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles were white, her breath coming in ragged, hysterical gasps.
For several miles, neither of us said a word. The only sound was the heavy thud of the windshield wipers pushing the storm away.
Finally, Mara broke the silence, her voice trembling with a mixture of terror and fierce anger.
"Where are we going, Irene?" she asked, tears streaming down her face as she stared straight at the dark road ahead. "Where the hell do we go now?"
I reached into my pocket, my fingers wrapping tightly around the cold metallic edges of the USB drive. The drive that held twenty-two million dollars. The drive that had destroyed my marriage, brought killers to my door, and revealed that the man I loved was a total lie.
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I looked at Mara, my expression hardening into something I didn't recognize—a cold, fierce resolve that had replaced the naive, grieving widow I had been just two hours ago.
"We find out what else Zane was hiding," I said, my voice deathly calm. "And then we make sure these bastards never touch us again."
