Chapter 4
The autumn rain lashed against the bulletproof glass of my corner office at the Sterling Center. I stood sipping black coffee, listening to the encrypted comms unit on my mahogany desk. Arthur Miller’s voice crackled through the speaker, thick with dark amusement.
“You called it, Dr. Vance. We hacked a shady urgent care clinic in Queens. Khloe’s HCG levels are dead zero. She’s suffering from severe pelvic inflammatory disease caused by bootleg diet pills she bought online. She paid a sonography tech two grand in cash to print a fake six-week sonogram to trap him.”
“Package the real blood work and the tech’s audio confession,” I instructed, my voice turning to ice. “Send it via the secure courier. Now.”
Miles away, in a moldering Bronx apartment smelling of cheap takeout and stale desperation, Preston Pierce sat curled on a torn sofa, shivering. He gripped the glossy, fake sonogram. Khloe sat at a cracked vanity mirror, layering cheap foundation over the dark circles under her eyes.
“An abortion is ten grand at a discreet clinic, Preston,” she demanded, her sweet, subservient facade long gone. “Find the money. Sell your watch.”
A heavy knock rattled their flimsy front door. Preston dragged himself up and opened it. No one was there. Just an unlabelled cardboard box sitting on the welcome mat. He brought it inside, slicing the tape with a kitchen knife. Inside was a sleek, high-tech baby monitor.
Suddenly, the screen flared to life. The built-in speaker emitted a soft crackle of static.
“Hello, Preston.”
My voice, crystal clear and devoid of mercy, filled the damp apartment. Preston dropped the box, backing away as if it were a live grenade.
“An abortion is a terrible thing to waste money on, Khloe,” my voice continued. “Especially when there’s nothing to abort.”
The screen shifted to a high-resolution image of Khloe’s real lab results. HCG: 0.0. Then, a rough, Queens-accented voice played through the speaker: “Yeah, she ain’t pregnant. Slipped me two grand to fake the scan so she could extort her boyfriend.”
The room fell into a deathly, suffocating silence.
Preston slowly rose from the sofa. The hollow fear in his eyes evaporated, replaced by catastrophic, blinding fury. He lunged across the room, wrapping his hands like iron vises around the lapels of her robe, slamming her back against the vanity mirror.
“You used a baby to extort me?!” he roared, spit flying into her face. “I lost everything for you!”
Khloe clawed wildly at his wrists. Abandoning her innocent victim routine, she unleashed a venomous, jagged laugh. “I didn’t ruin you, you pathetic coward! You cut her epidural because you were jealous of her! You couldn’t stand that your wife was a better surgeon! You used me to torture her!”
Her words sliced through his last remaining delusion. Preston dropped her, letting out a guttural, mindless scream of absolute psychological collapse.
The neighbors called the NYPD. Ten minutes later, both were dragged out in handcuffs. I watched the mugshots come through on Arthur’s secure feed.
“Arthur, detonate the second bomb,” I ordered calmly.
Khloe had secured her internship using a highly forged nursing degree. Preston had used his credentials to officially sign off on her background check. Handing that evidence to the District Attorney upgraded their domestic dispute to federal fraud.
Four hours later, Preston bailed himself out for the domestic disturbance. But as he walked down the precinct steps, federal detectives intercepted him. Something inside him finally, irreparably snapped. He violently shoved the detective down the concrete stairs and sprinted into the chaotic Manhattan traffic.
Back in my office, an emergency alert flashed across my screen.
May you like
Preston evaded federal custody. He’s off the grid. Do not leave the building.
I looked out at the darkening city skyline. A man with nothing left to lose is the most dangerous animal on earth. And I knew, with chilling certainty, exactly where he was heading.
