Chapter 3 - The Unmarked Account
The interior of Vincent’s car was quiet, save for the low hum of the custom twin-turbo engine idling in the shadows of the secondary parking lot.
It wasn't an escort’s car. It was a matte-black sedan with reinforced Kevlar-lined door panels, bulletproof glass, and an array of encrypted communication displays built directly into the leather dashboard.
Clare sat in the passenger seat, her evening gown bunched around her legs, clutching her purse like a life preserver. Her mind was a chaotic storm of memories, grief, and terror.
"You're not a fake boyfriend," Clare said, her voice flat as she looked at the bank of hidden switches near the gear gearstick. "You're not even an escort."
Vincent pulled out of the driveway, keeping the headlights off until they cleared the outer gates of the estate.
"The agency you booked through—'Executive Companions LLC'—isn't a dating service," Vincent said smoothly, his eyes glued to the rearview mirror. "It's an offshore contract routing network used by high-net-worth individuals who need discreet physical security without drawing public attention."
"You... you were hired to guard me?"
"No," Vincent replied. "I bought the agency contract two days ago when your name flagged on an internal registry. I took the job because I needed to see if you were involved."
Clare turned her head sharply. "Involved in what?"
"In Vance's missing money." Vincent accelerated onto the dark two-lane highway winding along the lake. "When Daniel vanished, twenty-four million dollars disappeared with him. Nikolai Vance spent three years assuming I took it. He hunted me from Seattle to Berlin. Three months ago, I finally proved to Vance's auditors that I didn't have his money."
"So Vance started looking for Daniel again," Clare realized, her stomach turning cold.
"Vance realized Daniel was alive," Vincent corrected. "And he assumed Daniel would eventually contact the only person he ever truly cared about."
He looked over at her briefly, his expression grim. "You."
Clare remembered the text message that had vibrated on her phone twenty minutes before they met at the coffee shop yesterday.
Stop looking for your brother.
She pulled her phone from her bag, her hands shaking so violently she could barely type in her passcode. She brought up the unknown number and held the screen out toward Vincent.
"This came yesterday," she said.
Vincent glanced at the screen. His eyes narrowed instantly. "Did you open the attachment?"
"There wasn't an attachment. Just text."
"Tap the blue icon in the top right," Vincent instructed calmly, his voice dropping into that terrifyingly efficient tone.
Clare tapped the screen. A small string of alpha-numeric code appeared beneath the phone number.
TRK-9904-VAN-EX.
"What is that?" Clare asked.
"It's a satellite ping trace," Vincent said, slamming his foot on the brake and pulling the car hard into a dark gravel turnout beneath a canopy of dense pine trees. He shifted into park and turned to face her. "Someone didn't send you a warning, Clare. They used a commercial IMSI-catcher to clone your SIM card when you read that text. They've been listening to your microphone since yesterday morning."
Clare dropped the phone onto her lap as if it had turned into a burning coal. "What?"
"Don't touch it," Vincent ordered. He reached into his coat, pulled out a small, foil-lined Faraday bag, grabbed her phone, and sealed it inside. "Every word you said in that coffee shop... every word you said in the car on the way to the wedding... they heard it."
"Who?" Clare cried, tears of sheer panic finally spilling over her lashes. "Who is listening to me?"
"Vance's operators," Vincent said quietly. "Or..."
He hesitated, his gaze drifting out toward the dark, fog-shrouded trees surrounding the turnout.
"Or who, Vincent?" Clare demanded, grabbing his dark jacket sleeve. "Tell me!"
"Or Daniel," Vincent said softly. "Because that photo wasn't taken by a stalker, Clare. The angle was taken from inside the driver's side mirror of the black Audi. The only person who could have taken that shot was the man holding the keys."
He pulled the photo back out and pointed to the faint reflection visible in the polished side mirror of the vehicle.
Mirrored in the glass was a hand holding an old-fashioned 35mm mechanical camera. On the middle finger was a heavy silver ring carved with a geometric crest.
Clare stared at the ring. The breath left her lungs in a long, shuddering gasp.
It was her father's signet ring.
The ring Daniel had worn around his neck on a steel chain ever since the day their father died.
"He's alive," Clare sobbed, throwing her head back against the leather headrest as three years of buried grief erupted from her chest. "Oh God... Daniel is alive..."
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Vincent didn't comfort her. He didn't reach out to touch her hand. He sat rigid in the driver's seat, his eyes scanning the dark treeline through the dark tint of the windshield.
"He's alive, Clare," Vincent murmured, reaching down to pull a matte-black semi-automatic pistol from a concealed holster beneath the steering column. "But he just used you as bait to draw Vance's men out into the open."
