Chapter 11
The screen of Lisa’s phone felt freezing cold against her trembling fingers as she stared at the photograph of Maya. The timestamp on the image read two minutes ago. The street sign in the background clearly displayed the corner of 6th and Elm—just three blocks away from the chaotic scene at the restaurant.
"Detective Vance," Lisa said, her voice dropping into a terrifyingly sharp register that made the seasoned investigator spin around instantly. "Look at this."
She shoved the glowing screen into Vance’s face. The veteran detective’s eyes scanned the image, and the color drained from his weathered cheeks.
"Where is your daughter right now?" Vance demanded, his hand dropping instinctively toward his holstered weapon.
"She... she had piano practice at the community center on Elm Street," Lisa stammered, the terror finally breaking through her shock-induced numbness. "It ended ten minutes ago. She should be walking home."
Vance didn't hesitate. He grabbed his radio, barking orders into the mic with urgent precision. "All units, be advised! Suspect is moving toward 6th and Elm. Target has a juvenile hostage or is tracking a family member of the primary witness. Code three, establish a hard blockade immediately!"
He turned back to Lisa, his expression grim and uncompromising. "Mrs. Santos, get into the unmarked unit parked by the curb. My driver will take you to the community center. We intercept them before they reach her."
Lisa didn't argue. She bolted toward the restaurant's front exit, ignoring the ruined dining room, the overturned chairs, and the staring patrons. The black suitcase was gone, lost in the alleyway, but Maya was still out there in the crosshairs of a syndicate that played by execution rules.
As they sped through the neon-lit streets, the siren wailing a frantic warning against the damp night air, Lisa clutched her phone so hard her knuckles turned white. Another text notification popped up on the screen. She unlocked it with a shaking thumb. It wasn't a photo this time; it was a short, chilling text message from Elena’s number:
The suitcase for the girl. Meet me at the old boathouse by the lake in twenty minutes, or don't bother coming at all.
May you like
Lisa gasped, slamming her hand against the dashboard of the unmarked car. "The lake! They're heading to the vacation cabin—the one Ramon forged over to her this morning!"
Vance slammed on the brakes, throwing the car into a sharp U-turn that squealed against the asphalt. "Driver, reroute to the West Lake access road! Step on it!"
