Chapter 12 - The Metal Object on the Floor
Julian’s fingers closed around the small, heavy object resting on the cold metal floor of the prison van. The rough vibration of the diesel engine rattled through his bones as he brought his hand up to the dim amber light filtering through the small wire-mesh window in the partition.
It was a small, titanium USB drive, scratched and worn at the edges, bearing no labels or identifying marks.
Julian stared at it, his breath catching in his throat. He recognized the specific matte-finish casing instantly. It wasn't his drive, and it certainly wasn't standard federal issue. It was the master backup drive containing the encrypted ledger of every secondary shell company he had ever set up in the British Virgin Islands—the exact drive Marcus had allegedly handed over to the federal prosecutor three hours ago.
Why was it rolling around on the floor of a prison transport van?
Before Julian could process the terrifying implications, the transport van abruptly veered to the right, tires hissing loudly against the wet asphalt of the FDR Drive. The sudden deceleration threw Julian sideways against the reinforced mesh partition, his shoulder slamming hard into the cold steel.
The van ground to a halt with a heavy squeal of brake pads. The muffled sound of shouting voices filtered through from the front cab—not the gruff tones of the US Marshals, but sharp, urgent commands spoken in low, clipped cadences.
Julian pressed his face against the wire mesh, trying to peer through the small gap into the front cabin. The partition was bolted shut from the outside, but the dome light overhead flickered and died, plunging the entire vehicle into pitch blackness.
“What’s going on?” Julian shouted, his voice cracking with rising panic. “We’re not at Chambers Street! Open the door!”
No one answered. Outside, the distinct sound of heavy rain mixing with sleet drummed a frantic rhythm against the reinforced roof of the van. Then came the unmistakable sound of a heavy metal latch being unhooked from the exterior rear doors.
The left door swung open, letting in a blinding blast of white headlights from a vehicle parked directly behind them in the middle of the highway shoulder.
Silhouetted against the glare stood a tall figure wearing a dark trench coat, the collar turned up high against the freezing wind. It wasn't Henderson, and it wasn't a US Marshal.
“Mr. Vance,” a calm, unfamiliar voice called out from the doorway. “Step down from the vehicle, please. Your transfer has been... redirected.”
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Julian froze on the aluminum bench, the unmarked titanium USB drive clutched tightly in his sweating palm. He looked from the open doorway out into the blinding glare of the highway, realizing with a sick horror that his nightmare was far from over.
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