Chapter 7: The Descent from the Hills
Julian walked out of the Steiner Street brownstone into the blinding midday glare. The marine fog had burned off completely, replaced by a brilliant, unforgiving San Francisco sun that highlighted the steep, winding asphalt of the hills. He pulled his tuxedo jacket tight around his chest, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps as he walked briskly down the sidewalk toward the rendezvous point.
His phone, resting in his breast pocket, buzzed once with a silent notification. He pulled it out; his banking apps flashed empty balances across the screen. Every credit card, every investment account, every hidden reserve had been wiped clean. He was effectively a ghost—a man dressed in formal evening wear walking through a bustling afternoon city with nothing to his name except the clothes he wore and the memory of a woman he had pushed into the ocean.
He reached the corner where the town car was supposed to be waiting, but the curb was empty. Julian frowned, scanning the street. Had Marcus abandoned him? Had the ninety-minute window expired, or had Eleanor transmitted the backup files regardless of his compliance? A cold knot formed in his stomach. If Marcus had fled, Julian was stranded in a city where his face was tied to a major federal investigation, with no money for transport and no safe haven.
Just as panic threatened to pierce his carefully maintained composure, a familiar black sedan pulled away from a nearby alleyway and glided smoothly to a halt beside him. The rear window rolled down silently, revealing Marcus sitting in the back seat this time, holding a burner phone in one gloved hand.
"Get in," Marcus said flatly.
Julian didn't hesitate. He pulled the door open and slid into the leather interior, slamming the door shut behind him. The air-conditioning inside the car hit him instantly, smelling faintly of leather and expensive cologne.
"You're cutting it close," Marcus remarked without looking at him. "The local news channels are starting to pick up chatter from the Coast Guard. A fisherman reported seeing something white falling off the northern shelf near the Farallon Islands."
Julian stared straight ahead through the tinted windshield, his chest rising and falling as he tried to regulate his breathing. "Forget the Coast Guard. We need to get to a private airfield immediately. Not Monterey. Canada."
Marcus raised an eyebrow, glancing sideways at Julian’s disheveled appearance. "Canada requires funds, Mr. Vance. And unless your offshore accounts miraculously regenerated while you were inside that house, I'm going to need payment right now."
Julian reached into his pocket, his hand brushing against the empty space where his wallet usually rested. He had nothing left to give. But as his fingers grazed the lining of his jacket, they brushed against a small, forgotten pocket on the inner lapel—a hidden compartment he had sewn in himself years ago, containing an emergency bearer bond issued by a private Swiss bank, completely untraceable and valued at half a million dollars.
May you like
He pulled the crisp paper document out slowly, holding it up so Marcus could see the watermark. "This will cover the flight," Julian said quietly. "And silence."
Marcus stared at the bond for a long, silent moment before reaching out and taking it from Julian's hand. He folded it neatly and slipped it into his breast pocket. "Canada it is," Marcus murmured, tapping the driver's partition. "Hold on. We're taking the back roads."
