Chapter 2 - The Ghost of Sector Four
The private elevator of Whitaker Tower did not hum; it rode on electromagnetic cushions so quiet that the only sound was the faint electronic ticking of the floor indicator.
Floor 68. Floor 72. Floor 80.
Maya sat on the edge of a cream-colored leather sofa that cost more than her family’s entire apartment building. She clutched her canvas bag of crushed cans between her knees, her bare toes curled away from the plush wool rug. Across from her sat Grant Whitaker, his elbows resting on his knees, staring at her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.
Jonah Reed stood by the reinforced glass wall, watching the Chicago skyline dissolve into gray rain.
“She’s not on the public records,” Jonah said, his voice flat and professional. “I ran her name through the state database while we were coming up. Maya Haddad. Born in a clinic on the South Side. Mother registered as missing six years ago. Legal guardian listed as Nadia Haddad, seventy-four, resident of a condemned housing block on Cermak Road.”
Grant didn't look at Jonah. His gaze remained locked on Maya.
“Why were you at the tower today, Maya?” Grant asked. His voice was lower now, lacking the boardroom sharpness he had used on his security detail. It sounded tired. The voice of a man who carried a great deal of weight and suspected most of it was fake.
“My grandmother’s rent went up,” Maya said, lifting her chin. “They said if we don't pay four hundred dollars by Friday, we’re out on the street. I was collecting cans from the executive plaza. People around here throw away expensive water bottles that still have half an inch left. If you collect enough, you can trade them in at the depot on Ogden.”
Grant looked at her mended sneakers—held together by black electrical tape—and then at her oversized hoodie.
“You heard those men talking in Arabic,” Grant said. “You understood every word?”
“My grandmother speaks it when she’s angry, and when she’s praying, and when she’s telling stories about the old country,” Maya said. “She taught me. She said men think they can hide secrets in other languages because they think nobody else has a passport to them.”
Grant let out a slow, heavy breath that sounded almost like a laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Nadia always did have a sharp tongue. Tell me, did she ever mention my name?”
Maya’s eyes narrowed slightly. “She said you were a ghost who forgot where he was buried.”
Jonah turned away from the window, his eyebrows lifting. But Grant only closed his eyes for a second, rubbing the bridge of his nose where a deep crease divided his brow.
“She’s not wrong,” Grant murmured.
He stood up, walking over to a mahogany desk that faced the massive windows. He pressed a silver intercom button. “Dale? Get up to my office. Now.”
A static hiss preceded Dale Mercer’s voice. “Sir, I’m coordinating with the local precinct regarding the driver. It’s a mess down here—”
“I said now, Dale.”
Ten minutes later, the office door clicked open. Dale walked in, his security jacket neatly zipped, his jaw set. But his eyes flicked toward Maya with a flash of cold annoyance before he met Grant’s gaze.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Whitaker?” Dale asked.
“The driver’s name is Tariq,” Grant said, his tone dangerously calm. “He’s been with my transport team for four years. He passed every background check the agency provided.”
“The agency is thorough,” Dale said stiffly. “Sometimes people slip through. We’re auditing the manifests now.”
“He had a sedative kit under the back seat,” Grant said. “And a marked map of the Sector Four freight tunnel. The same tunnel that was closed for structural repairs last month—repairs authorized by your department, Dale.”
Dale didn't flinch, but his right hand dropped casually toward his belt. “Sir, are you suggesting—”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” Grant interrupted, stepping out from behind the desk. “I’m asking why you tried to dismiss the girl before she could tell me what she heard.”
“She’s a street kid, Mr. Whitaker!” Dale raised his voice, a mistake that a seasoned security chief rarely made. “She was looking for a handout or trying to cause a scene. If we stopped every time a panhandler yelled at the curb, we’d never leave the building.”
Maya stood up from the sofa. Her canvas bag slipped, and a single crushed aluminum can rolled across the expensive wool rug, stopping right at Dale’s polished leather shoe.
Dale looked down at the can with disgust, then kicked it away.
“You didn't just want her gone because she was a panhandler,” Maya said, her voice small, clear, and steady. “You wanted her gone because you knew what the driver was saying before he said it.”
Dale’s head whipped toward her, his face dark with sudden rage. “You little street rat—watch your mouth.”
“That’s enough,” Jonah said, closing the distance between himself and Dale in two silent strides. Jonah’s hand didn't hover near his belt; it rested flat and heavy on his holster. “Step back, Dale.”
Grant Whitaker looked at his head of security, then at the man who had worked for him for seven years.
“Jonah,” Grant said quietly. “Check Dale’s encrypted comms terminal downstairs. Look for any outgoing data packets transmitted to an external frequency in the last forty-eight hours.”
Dale’s face turned the color of ash.
May you like
Before Jonah could move toward the private terminal in the corner of the office, Dale lunged.
It wasn't an attack on Grant. It was a desperate lunge for the glass balcony door.
