Chapter 8 - INDEPENDENT PROOF
Before I could answer, the heavy oak doors of the diplomatic lounge burst open.
Vance walked in, his face set like a war general’s. In his hand, he carried a tactical satellite transceiver, its speaker crackling with static.
"Sir," Vance said, his voice tight. "The FBI raided the Mitchell residence twenty minutes ago."
My breath caught in my throat. Maya stopped coloring, looking up with wide, questioning eyes.
"Did they take him into custody?" Julian demanded.
"No," Vance replied grimly. "The house was empty. The shredder was burned out, and the garage was cleared. Mitchell skipped bail on his regional jurisdiction before the federal warrant was fully logged into the national database."
A cold spike of adrenaline shot through my veins. "He ran," I whispered. "He knew."
"He didn't just run," Vance said, holding up the transceiver. "We intercepted an encrypted cellular ping thirty seconds ago through the Rome Air Traffic Control relay. He wasn't in Ohio, Mrs. Mitchell."
Julian’s eyes narrowed dangerously. "Where is he, Vance?"
"He was on our tail," Vance said, his voice dropping into a chilling register. "Richard Mitchell boarded an Alitalia charter flight out of JFK six hours after you took off from Columbus. He utilized a forged Port Authority diplomatic clearance pass to bypass standard passenger screening. His plane touched down on Runway 16 at Fiumicino twenty minutes ago."
The room spun.
*He was here.*
Richard had followed us across the ocean. The man who had terrorized my life for seven years was currently breathing the exact same Roman air, walking through the exact same airport.
"How did he know which flight she took?" Julian demanded, his voice dropping into an icy, lethal register.
"He didn't track Sarah," Vance said, looking Julian dead in the eye. "He tracked *you*, Mr. Thorne. The syndicate’s European liaison in Naples gave Mitchell the flight coordinates for your commercial decoy. Mitchell made a deal: if he brings the syndicate your USB ledger and kills the witnesses who can verify the files, the syndicate will extract him to a non-extradition territory in North Africa."
Suddenly, my cheap burner phone—the one I had purchased with ten dollars of my grocery money before leaving Ohio—began to vibrate against the glass table.
*Bzzzz. Bzzzz.*
An unknown international number flashed on the cracked screen.
The room went completely, terrifyingly silent.
Maya looked at the phone, then shrank back into the cushions of the couch, clutching Mr. Waffles to her chest. "Daddy?" she whispered, her tiny body shaking.
Julian stood up. He walked over to the table and looked at me. "Put it on speaker, Sarah."
My hand shook so violently I could barely swipe the green icon. I tapped the speaker button and set the phone back on the glass.
A voice came through the line. It was smooth, calm, and coated in the familiar, suffocating poison that had ruled my life for nearly a decade.
*"Hello, Sarah."*
A sob hitched in my throat. I couldn't speak.
*"Did you really think an ocean would save you?"* Richard said, a low, cruel chuckle vibrating through the small speaker. *"Did you really think you could run away with my daughter, steal my property, and hide behind some billionaire widower?"*
"Richard," I managed to whisper, my fingernails digging into the palms of my hands until I drew blood. "Stay away from us. The police have the files. They know what you did to Elena Thorne."
A pause on the other end. When Richard spoke again, the veneer of calm had shattered into unhinged, feral rage.
*"The police don't have shit until that USB drive enters a federal evidence locker, Sarah! And that drive is never leaving Rome. Look out the window of your VIP lounge, sweetheart."*
Julian instantly moved to the window, peering through the vertical blinds into the rainy tarmac below.
Parked fifty yards away, near the diplomatic exit gate, was an airport catering truck. Sitting in the driver’s seat, wearing a stolen ramp-worker reflective vest, was Richard. His face was gaunt, his eyes hollow and crazed, a white bandage wrapped tightly around his left shoulder where he had stabbed himself to manufacture his lie.
In his right hand, resting casually against the steering wheel, was a black semi-automatic pistol.
*"You have five minutes, Sarah,"* Richard hissed into the phone. *"Walk out of that terminal door with Maya and the orange drive. Hand them to me, and I let you live. Refuse... and I drive this five-ton truck straight through the glass front of that lounge and kill everyone inside, starting with Julian Thorne’s bastard baby."*
May you like
The line went dead.
***
