"The plea of an 8-year-old child: 'Please buy my little sister!'"

The drive back was not a return to safety; it was an invitation to conflict. The limousine had barely exited the industrial sector when a pair of SUVs cut them off on the bridge. The screech of tires was deafening.

"Stay down, Tommy!" Richard roared.

The driver, a man named Miller who had served in the shadows of the military, pulled a sidearm from the glove box. "Sir, we have hostiles. Three vehicles. They’re closing the gap."

Richard felt a sudden, sharp clarity. This wasn't just corporate espionage; this was an extraction mission gone wrong. The people who had killed Elena were not just thugs; they were a paramilitary wing of the very corporation Richard helped build.

"Go, Miller! Use the side streets!"

The limousine swerved, tires smoking, as bullets began to chew into the heavy-duty rear panels. Richard dove over Tommy, shielding him with his own body. He could feel the vibration of the impacts through the frame of the car.

"Why are they doing this?" Tommy screamed, his voice thin in the chaos.

"Because they are afraid of what your mother knew!" Richard shouted back, his hand on Tommy’s back, feeling the boy’s rapid, frantic heartbeat.

The chase was brutal. Miller drove with calculated, cold precision, weaving through traffic and taking narrow alleys that should have been impossible for a vehicle of their size. They finally broke free of their pursuers by plunging into a massive parking garage, ditching the limousines, and switching to an inconspicuous van that Richard’s team had pre-positioned.

As they sat in the dim, dripping garage, Richard breathed heavily. His suit was torn, his hands covered in oil and soot. He looked at Tommy, who was staring at him with a mix of terror and awe.