Chapter 3 - THE DIGITAL TRAP
I backed away from the warehouse window silently, making sure my footsteps left no trace in the dirt. I jogged back to the Range Rover, slid into the driver’s seat, and locked the doors.
My mind was racing at Mach 3.
If I kicked the door down right now, dragged Arthur out into the sunlight, and called the police, what would happen? Arthur would produce an army of high-priced corporate lawyers. He’d claim he faked his death due to "credible mafia threats" eight years ago—a common loophole used by white-collar criminals to escape federal investigations—and that he was merely visiting his family in secret. He’d tie me up in injunctions, accuse me of harassment, and use Sarah’s shock against me to paint me as an unstable, paranoid husband.
To beat a ghost, you couldn't just punch him. You had to drag him into the light where his invisibility cloak didn't work.
I pulled out my phone and dialed a ten-digit number that I hadn't used since my days consulting for government cybersecurity contracts.
It rang twice before a raspy, gravelly voice answered.
"Speak."
"Marcus," I said, keeping my voice low and steady. "It’s Jonathan Vance."
A pause on the other end. Then, a low whistle. "Vance? Last I heard, you were swimming in billionaire liquidity and changing diapers in Greenwich. What do you need from the dark web guy?"
"I need a complete, unredacted corporate and financial traceback on a ghost," I said, staring through the windshield at the windowless brick building. "Arthur Sterling. Died eight years ago off the coast of Maine. I need to know every shell company, offshore account, and real estate holding he’s touched since his supposed demise."
"Arthur Sterling?" Marcus laughed darkly. "That’s a whale, Jonathan. The SEC and the FBI spent six months auditing his estate after his yacht went down. They found a mess of missing bonds and untraceable wire transfers to the Cayman Islands, but the case was closed due to 'lack of corpus delicti'—no body."
"Because he’s sitting in a warehouse in Queens right now, drinking coffee and planning to declare me legally dead by next Tuesday," I snarled.
Silence hung on the line for three seconds.
"Send me everything you have," Marcus said, his tone instantly shifting from playful to lethal. "Give me two hours. If Arthur Sterling is breathing oxygen on American soil, I’ll find every penny he’s hiding, every tax evasion scheme he’s running, and every digital footprint he’s left behind since 2018."
"Do it," I said, hanging up the phone.
I looked at my dashboard clock. 2:15 PM.
By 4:15 PM, Marcus would have the data. By 6:00 PM, I would be walking back through the front door of my Greenwich estate—not as the trusting, busy CEO who was easy to manipulate, but as a man who knew the entire battlefield.
First, however, I needed to make sure Lily and Evelyn didn't return home and find me missing from the office in Chicago.
I fired off an encrypted message to my chief operating officer in Chicago: Flight diverted due to severe turbulence in western PA. Joining the morning board meeting via secure video link. Do not disturb until then.
It was a flimsy alibi, but it would buy me the afternoon.
May you like
Ten minutes later, the heavy steel door of the warehouse screeched open. Evelyn’s silver SUV pulled out into the sunlight, with Lily sitting quietly in the back seat, holding a newly wrapped cardboard box—probably containing the "better mug" Arthur had promised her.
I let them drive a mile ahead before I put the Range Rover in gear and trailed them all the way back to Greenwich.
