Chapter 3 - The Silent Strike Above
I pulled my old flip phone out—the burner phone I used when conducting business that required absolute anonymity—and dialed a direct seven-digit number. It didn't ring twice before a deep, gravelly voice answered.
“Yates.”
“Marcus. It’s Abraham.”
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. Marcus Vance had been my chief of security and operations logistics director for twenty-two years. He knew who I was, what I owned, and what I was capable of when crossed.
“Boss? We’ve been trying to reach you all evening. Are you alright?”
“I’m in Chestnut Hill, at Wyatt’s house,” I said quietly, pacing the dim basement corner. “My son has been kidnapped, tortured, and chained in his own basement by his wife and her father. His leg is shattered. They’ve been drugging him to force a corporate takeover of our western shipping lanes.”
A heavy, murderous silence hung over the line for three seconds.
“Give me the address,” Marcus said, his voice dropping into a cold, lethal register. “Do you want us to handle the police or the legal team first?”
“Neither yet,” I replied. “I want you to mobilize four transport haulers from the Kansas City depot. Block every exit out of this neighborhood. Nobody leaves Chestnut Hill tonight until I give the word. Bring Dr. Althaus from our private corporate clinic, and bring two of our heaviest security units. We’re going to crash a New Year’s party.”
“On my way, Abraham. Twenty minutes.”
I clicked the phone shut and slipped it back into my coat. I turned back to Wyatt, who was watching me with wide, disbelieving eyes.
“Dad... who did you just call? Who are you?”
“We’ll talk about that later, son,” I said, unzipping my heavy canvas jacket and draping it over his shivering shoulders. “Right now, we need to wait for the guests to get deep into their champagne.”
Upstairs, the music swelled. Someone was shouting a countdown. “Ten! Nine! Eight!...”
May you like
The floorboards above our heads vibrated with stomping feet and cheerful roars. As the shouts of “Happy New Year!” echoed down the stairwell, I smiled grimly.
Their new year was about to turn very, very cold.
