The truck screamed down the two-lane blacktop, its engine pinging with protest, but Ellis's foot stayed welded to the floor. Royce twisted in the passenger seat, staring at the text message on the burner phone, the words burning into his retinas. His brother—the man he'd just hugged for the first time in fifteen years—was now a hostage. Morrow had anticipated everything. He'd let Royce win the money, knowing that the real prize was leverage.
"Pull over," Royce said, his voice flat.
Ellis glanced at him. "We're not out of the city yet. Cops are—"
"Pull over now."
Ellis obeyed, braking hard onto a gravel shoulder. The truck skidded, kicking up dust, and came to a halt under the skeletal branches of a dead cottonwood. Royce jumped out, pacing the roadside, his mind racing through scenarios, all of them ending in blood.
Mir and Dex climbed out too, their faces drawn. Lita was still twenty minutes behind, having peeled off to lose a separate tail. The silence was broken only by the hum of the truck's overheating engine and the distant wail of sirens fading south.
"What's the message?" Mir asked, though she could guess.
Royce handed her the phone. She read it, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Cimarron Crescent. Noon. That's eleven hours from now."
"He wants the wallet key," Dex said. "He's got the money, he's got Ellis, and he's got us by the throat."
"He doesn't have the money," Mir corrected. "I moved it to a new wallet—one that only I can access. But the original master key—the one Royce found in the thumb drive—that's still valid as a symbolic token. If Morrow gets that, he might be able to use it to brute-force the new wallet's encryption over time. He's a patient man."
Royce stopped pacing. "So I give him the old key. It's worthless without the biometric authentication Mir created. But he doesn't know that—he thinks it's the real key. I trade a dead key for my brother's life."
"You really think Morrow will honor the deal?" Dex asked, his voice skeptical. "He's burned everyone he's ever worked with. He'll kill Ellis the moment he has the key in his hand."
"He might," Royce admitted. "But I don't have a better option. I can't call the cops—we're fugitives. I can't mount a rescue without knowing where he's holding Ellis. The Cimarron Crescent is a known quantity—it's where this all started. Morrow wants to close the circle. He wants me to walk in, alone, and hand over the key. That's the only way he'll show himself."
Mir stepped closer, her voice lowered. "Then we don't give him what he wants. We give him something else. A fake key—one that looks authentic but leads to a dead end. While he's busy trying to decrypt it, we find Ellis and extract him."
"From where?" Royce asked. "We don't know where Morrow's keeping him."
"We don't need to know," Mir said, a cold calculation in her eyes. "We have his phone. I can ping its signal—Ellis's phone, not the burner you gave him. He had his personal cell in his pocket. I can trace it to within fifty feet. Morrow might have taken it, but if it's still powered on, I can find it."
Royce stared at her. "You could have done that from the start?"
"I needed a clear signal and a quiet network," she said. "We've been moving too fast. But now—" She pulled out her laptop, opened a terminal, and began typing. "Give me five minutes."
The five minutes stretched like hours. Royce watched the road behind them, waiting for Lita's car to appear, waiting for a black SUV of mercenaries to crest the hill. The sky was a dull gray, the sun not yet fully risen. The temperature was dropping, a cold front blowing in from the north.
Mir's screen flashed. "Got it. Ellis's phone is pinging from a location about fifty miles northeast—an old grain elevator outside a town called Medford. It's a dead zone for cell coverage, but the phone must have cached a signal. That's where Morrow is holding him."
Dex peered at the map. "That's not far from the Cimarron Crescent. Maybe fifteen miles. Morrow could be moving between both locations."
"Or he's using the grain elevator as a base and the refinery as the meeting point," Royce said. "Either way, we have a lead. We hit the grain elevator first—free Ellis—then deal with Morrow."
Lita's car pulled up, its headlights off, her contact's diversion having worked. She jumped out, saw the tension on their faces, and demanded a briefing. Royce summarized in thirty seconds. Lita listened, then nodded.
"Grain elevator. That's a good defensive position—lots of vertical space, sightlines, and only one entrance. Morrow will have lookouts. We need to approach from the back, through the fields."
"We don't have time for a full tactical assault," Royce said. "We have maybe nine hours before noon. If we don't show at the refinery, Morrow kills Ellis and disappears again."
"Then we split," Lita said. "Two of us hit the grain elevator, two go to the refinery as a decoy. Morrow won't know which team has the key because we'll both have copies of the same fake. He'll have to hedge his bets."
Royce considered it. It was risky—dividing their already small force—but it was also the only way to cover both locations. "I'll go to the refinery with Mir. We'll bring the fake key and stall. Dex, you and Lita take the truck and go to the grain elevator. Free Ellis, then exfil and regroup."
"Why do I get the extraction?" Dex asked. "I'm an engineer, not a commando."
"Because you know the terrain," Lita said. "You've worked in grain elevators before—you said so, back at the Rusty Stack. You know the structural weaknesses, the fire escapes, the maintenance ladders. You're my ticket in."
Dex swore under his breath but didn't argue. He'd mentioned his summer job during college, climbing silos to calibrate dust sensors. The knowledge was about to pay off.
They transferred gear: Mir's laptop, the jammer, a set of lockpicks, and two spare burner phones. Lita handed Royce her backup Sig and a single extra magazine. "I'll take Dex's shotgun—it's got more stopping power if we need it."
They parted ways at a crossroad, the truck rumbling east toward Medford, Lita at the wheel, Dex riding shotgun with a sawed-off resting across his knees. Royce and Mir took a rusted sedan they'd stolen from a farmhouse—keys in the ignition, gas tank half-full—and drove north toward the Cimarron Crescent.
The refinery loomed on the horizon like a ghost from the first chapter. Royce felt a sickening déjà vu—the same cracked parking lot, the same skeletal towers, the same wind carrying the faint memory of sulfur. He parked a mile out, as before, and walked the rest with Mir, keeping low.
They entered through the same gap in the fence, traversed the same pipe-littered ground, and reached the control room—the same room where Voss had been tied up, where the drone had circled, where everything had gone sideways. This time, there were fresh tire tracks in the gravel and a single light burning in the main processing unit.
Morrow was waiting inside, seated on a folding chair, a tablet in his hand. He was alone—or at least, he appeared to be. Royce knew better than to trust appearances.
"Royce," Morrow said, rising with a thin smile. "You came. And you brought the lovely Ms. Chen. I'm almost touched." He gestured to two empty chairs. "Please, sit. We have time."
Royce didn't sit. "Where's my brother?"
"Safe. For now. He's in a comfortable location—I'll let him go as soon as you give me the wallet key. The original, not a copy. I'll know the difference."
Mir stepped forward, holding a USB drive. "The key is on this. It's a clean export from the master file. You can verify the hash—it matches the blockchain record."
Morrow took the drive, inserted it into a portable terminal, and scanned the file. His eyes flickered with satisfaction. "It's authentic. Well done." He pocketed the drive. "Now, about the biometric synthesis—you'll provide that as well, Ms. Chen. The full package. Otherwise, I'll have no way to access the new wallet."
Mir's face remained impassive. "The synthesis is on a separate encrypted drive. You'll get it when Ellis is released and we're all out of this place."
Morrow chuckled. "You're not in a position to negotiate. I have your brother, and I have a dozen men surrounding this refinery. If you don't hand over the synthesis now, I'll have my men start shooting—starting with the silo where Ellis is being held. I can make a phone call in two seconds."
Royce's heart seized. He'd counted on Morrow not knowing about the grain elevator. But Morrow's tone was too confident—he knew exactly where Ellis was. Either he'd anticipated the ping, or he'd planted false information.
Royce decided to bluff. "We already hit the grain elevator, Morrow. Ellis is free. Dex and Lita have him. If you make that call, it'll go unanswered."
Morrow's smile flickered—just a fraction, but Royce caught it. The bluff had landed. Morrow hadn't expected the split.
"You're lying," Morrow said, but there was uncertainty in his voice.
"Try calling," Royce said. "I'll wait."
Morrow pulled out a satellite phone and dialed. He listened. The line rang and rang. No answer. Royce saw the confidence drain from Morrow's face—the first genuine crack in his armor.
At that moment, the far wall of the control room exploded inward.
Not a bomb—a truck. The same farm truck, driven by Lita, with Dex firing the shotgun through the windshield. They'd come straight from the grain elevator, having found it empty—Ellis wasn't there. But they'd guessed that Morrow would consolidate his forces at the refinery, and they'd arrived just in time.
Morrow dove behind a steel console as the truck crashed through, sending debris and dust flying. Royce grabbed Mir and pulled her behind a support column. Gunfire erupted from the shadows—Morrow's mercenaries, hidden in the catwalks, opening up on the truck.
Lita bailed out of the driver's side, rolling into cover. Dex scrambled out the passenger side, his shotgun barking. Mir pulled out her jammer and activated it, disrupting the mercenaries' comms. The control room became a chaotic symphony of gunshots, shouting, and shattering glass.
Royce saw Morrow scrambling toward a rear exit, his tablet and the USB drive still in his hands. He couldn't let him escape again. He sprinted after him, ignoring the bullets whizzing past.
He caught Morrow at the door, tackling him to the ground. The USB drive skittered across the concrete floor. Morrow swung a wild punch, connecting with Royce's jaw. Royce returned a blow to the ribs, and they wrestled in the dust, two men who'd once been colleagues, now reduced to feral combat.
Royce got the upper hand, pinning Morrow's arms. "Where's my brother? Tell me, or I'll break your arm."
Morrow laughed through bloody teeth. "He's not at the grain elevator. He's not anywhere you can find him. I had him moved to a dead drop—only I know the location. If you kill me, he starves. Let me go, and I'll give you the coordinates."
Royce's grip loosened—just a fraction. That was all Morrow needed. He twisted free, grabbed the USB drive, and lunged for the exit.
But Mir was there, her laptop raised like a club. She brought it down on Morrow's head, and the dead man crumpled to the floor, unconscious.
The control room fell silent. The mercenaries, hearing no orders, had laid down their weapons—they were contractors, not zealots. Lita and Dex had them covered.
Royce stood over Morrow, panting. He picked up the USB drive—the fake key—and pocketed it. Then he knelt beside the unconscious man and searched his pockets. He found a folded piece of paper with an address scrawled in pencil: a storage unit on the outskirts of Enid.
"Call Ellis," he said to Mir. "Now."
Mir dialed Ellis's number—the burner they'd given him. It rang. And rang. And then a groggy voice answered: "Yeah?"
Royce grabbed the phone. "Ellis—you're alive. Where are you?"
"I'm in a storage unit, I think. Dark, cold, smells like mildew. They drugged me—I just woke up. How'd you find me?"
"I didn't. I found the address. Stay put—we're coming."
Royce ended the call and looked at his team. They were battered, exhausted, but alive. Morrow was down. The money was secure. Ellis was alive—barely.
But as they dragged Morrow into the truck and sped toward Enid, Royce's phone buzzed again. A text, not from Morrow, but from an unknown number with a D.C. area code.
"Franklin Morrow is a dead man walking. You've exposed him. But you've also exposed yourself. The FEB's Inspector General wants to meet. Tomorrow, 9 AM, the Tulsa Federal Building. Come alone. Bring the recording. Or we'll have no choice but to issue a warrant for your arrest. —IG."
Royce stared at the screen. The game had just added a new player—the very agency he'd once served. And they weren't asking politely.
He looked at his team—his crew, his family in everything but blood. The money was theirs. The story was out. But now the government wanted a piece.
And Royce had to decide whether to keep running, or to finally face the music.
He made his choice. He typed back one word: "I'll be there."
Then he turned off the phone and tossed it out the window.
Tomorrow, he'd walk into the lion's den. But tonight, he had a brother to rescue, a fortune to hide, and a ghost to bury for good.
And in the back of his mind, a single thought echoed: the IG might be the only person in the world who could help him take down Morrow for good—but only if he could trust them.
And Royce Madden didn't trust anyone anymore.
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