Chapter 7 - THE ARCHITECT'S ESCROW
The photograph shook in my hands.
David Kesler.
The man who measured my side work with a stopwatch.
The man who deducted thirty dollars from my check if a linen napkin was folded crooked.
He was standing on an airport tarmac with my dead husband.
"David was Mark's handler," Teresa Vance said.
She sat on the leather bench opposite me, resting her hands on a silver-topped cane.
"Your husband wasn't a dispatcher, Megan."
"He was the chief logistics engineer for the municipal port authority."
"He designed the automated customs bypass that moves ninety percent of the city's black-market freight."
"Why would David work at a French bistro?" I whispered.
"Laura isn't a bistro," Teresa replied coldly.
"It is the central clearinghouse for the South Side syndicate."
"The restaurant sits directly above the original 1904 freight tunnel system."
"The wine cellar connects to three miles of subterranean tracks beneath the loop."
I stared at the photograph.
The pieces began falling together with sickening clarity.
The private parties in the back room on Tuesdays.
The heavy wooden wine crates that were never opened during regular service.
The armed men who waited in the alley while David counted the evening deposits.
"The forty million dollars in bearer bonds," I said, looking up at Teresa.
"They're in the wine cellar."
"No," Teresa corrected.
"They were in the wine cellar."
"Mark moved them forty-eight hours before he was executed."
She leaned forward, her diamonds catching the fluorescent light.
"Mark created an automated escrow protocol."
"Every twenty-four hours, the digital certificates verify a single IP address."
"If the verification fails for seven consecutive days,"
"the entire forty million is permanently transferred to a public trust account managed by the Illinois Department of Children and Family Services."
"In Leo's name."
My breath caught in my throat.
"Mark did that for Leo?"
"Mark did that to make sure nobody could kill you without destroying the money forever," Teresa said.
"The escrow expires at six o'clock this morning."
"In less than two hours."
The double doors of the surgical suite clicked open.
Dr. Aris stepped into the hallway, pulling down his bloody paper mask.
His eyes looked hollowed out by exhaustion.
I scrambled to my feet, dropping the folder onto the bench.
"Is he alive?"
Dr. Aris looked at me, then at Teresa.
"The spleen was ruptured. We had to perform a partial resection."
"He lost another unit on the table."
"He is stable, but he should be in a medical coma for forty-eight hours."
"Should be?" Teresa asked, her eyebrows rising.
"He refused the secondary sedative," Dr. Aris sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"He is awake."
"And he is demanding to see the girl."
I didn't wait for Teresa's permission.
I pushed past the doctor into the sterile recovery room.
The smell of iodine, ozone, and cold oxygen hit my face.
Roman lay on a raised hospital bed in the center of the room.
Monitors hummed softly around him.
A thick white abdominal binder was wrapped tight around his midsection.
IV lines snaked into both of his arms.
His face was drawn, pale as marble, but his gray eyes were wide open.
When he saw me enter, his breathing changed.
"Megan," he rasped through the oxygen mask.
I walked to the side of the bed.
I reached out and took his right hand between both of mine.
His skin was warmer now, heated by the fresh blood transfusions.
"You're an idiot, Roman Vance," I whispered, tears spilling over my lashes.
"You died twice in that ambulance."
A faint, tired smirk touched the corner of his lips beneath the clear plastic mask.
He pulled the mask down with his free hand.
"I told you... I had people coming."
"Your mother showed me the files," I said, leaning down so only he could hear.
"David Kesler was Mark's handler."
"The bonds are set to expire at six a.m."
Roman’s expression hardened back into the ruthless boss I had seen in the alley.
"David isn't at the bistro, Megan."
"Where is he?"
"He took eight men to the municipal water intake crib three miles off Navy Pier," Roman said, his voice tightening with suppressed agony.
"The central switching terminal for the downtown grid is housed on that intake."
"He is preparing to fry the servers."
"If he destroys the central fiber line, the escrow defaults to a manual override code."
"A code only David holds."
Roman tried to sit up, his muscles straining against the white binder.
The heart monitor gave a rapid, frantic beep.
"Roman! Don't move!" I cried, pressing my hands against his uninjured shoulder.
"The boat leaves from the slip at five-fifteen," Roman panted, sweat beading across his forehead.
"I have to be on that dock."
"You can't even stand up!"
"Then you go," Roman said.
His gray eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that pinned me to the floor.
He reached to his pinky finger.
He slid off a heavy, hand-carved platinum signet ring bearing the crest of a coiled viper.
He pressed the cold metal into my bloody palm.
"Show this to the harbor captain at Slip Nine."
"Take Viktor."
"Take my private interceptor."
"Stop David Kesler before that clock hits six."
I looked down at the heavy platinum ring.
Then I looked at the man who had taken three bullets so my son could have medicine.
"I'm a waitress, Roman."
May you like
"Not anymore, Megan," he whispered, his fingers closing mine over the ring.
"Tonight, you're my partner."
