Chapter 11 - Rourke’s Final Bargain
They reached an underground parking structure just before one in the morning.
Marco had a secondary vehicle waiting.
Desmond drove.
That fact alone told Beatrice how serious the situation was.
Desmond almost never drove when security was active.
Tonight, he trusted nobody he couldn’t see.
Evan sat beside Marco in the rear.
Daniel followed in another vehicle.
Beatrice sat beside Desmond.
For ten minutes, nobody spoke.
Chicago passed outside in streaks of wet light.
Finally Beatrice said, “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere Nathan doesn’t know.”
“Does such a place exist?”
“Yes.”
“You sound confident.”
“I bought it under your name.”
Her head turned.
“You what?”
“Three years ago.”
“Why?”
“Tax reasons.”
“Liar.”
Desmond almost smiled.
“Fine.”
“Why?”
“A safe property.”
“In my name?”
“Through a trust.”
“Which I don’t know exists.”
“You weren’t supposed to need it.”
She stared at him.
“You have an alarming habit of purchasing real estate around me.”
“Property is stable.”
“That isn’t normal courtship.”
“We are not discussing courtship.”
“You carried a ring for three months.”
Marco made a small choking sound in the back seat.
Desmond looked in the mirror.
“Something wrong?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Despite everything, Beatrice smiled.
Then reality returned.
“If Nathan uploaded everything, the government will freeze your accounts.”
“Some.”
“Your board will panic.”
“Yes.”
“Investors?”
“Yes.”
“Employees?”
Desmond’s hands tightened on the wheel.
That was the part he cared about.
Hayes Capital employed nearly eight thousand people legitimately.
Most knew nothing about the world beneath the polished offices.
Accountants.
Architects.
Drivers.
Analysts.
Hotel staff.
Construction workers.
Thousands of families.
If Hayes Capital collapsed, they would pay for Desmond’s past.
Beatrice understood why he looked suddenly older.
“We can separate legitimate assets,” she said.
“It’ll take months.”
“We start tonight.”
“Nathan has internal records.”
“So do I.”
He glanced at her.
“I kept independent compliance archives.”
“Of course you did.”
“You sign things without reading.”
“I read.”
“You skim.”
“I delegate.”
“You’re welcome.”
He shook his head.
For perhaps twenty seconds, the world felt normal.
Then Marco’s phone rang.
“Unknown.”
“Speaker,” Desmond said.
Marco answered.
Thomas Rourke.
“You escaped.”
Desmond’s voice remained calm.
“You sound disappointed.”
“Victor surprised me.”
“Apparently a habit.”
“Federal agents detained half my staff.”
“My sympathies.”
“No, they aren’t.”
“No.”
Rourke chuckled.
“Where is the real ledger?”
Beatrice answered.
“Safe.”
“Nothing is safe tonight.”
“What do you want?”
Rourke paused.
“Nathan.”
Desmond glanced in the mirror.
“We don’t have him.”
“But you know how he thinks.”
“So do you.”
“I trained him.”
“And failed.”
Rourke ignored the insult.
“Nathan intends to destroy us both.”
“Correct.”
“We can stop him.”
Desmond laughed softly.
“You’re suggesting cooperation.”
“Temporary.”
“Why would I trust you?”
“You shouldn’t.”
That answer earned a glance from Beatrice.
Rourke continued.
“But our interests align.”
“For how long?”
“Until Nicholas is gone.”
“Then?”
“We return to hating each other.”
Beatrice leaned toward the phone.
“What do you know?”
“Nathan kept a contingency archive.”
“Where?”
“That’s the problem.”
“You don’t know.”
“I know the key.”
“What key?”
“You.”
Beatrice went still.
Desmond’s expression changed instantly.
“Explain.”
“Patrick Gallagher created part of the original accounting encryption.”
“My father?” Beatrice asked.
“Yes.”
“He was an accountant.”
“An accountant who enjoyed puzzles.”
Evan leaned forward.
“That’s true.”
Rourke continued.
“Patrick designed a substitution system. Nicholas later modified it.”
“What does this have to do with Beatrice?” Desmond asked.
“Patrick based the original master phrase on his daughter.”
Beatrice frowned.
“Me?”
“Your birthday. Childhood address. A phrase from a book. Something personal.”
“So Nathan needs information about me to open his archive?”
“Yes.”
“Then why not just search public records?”
“Because Patrick hated obvious answers.”
Evan almost smiled.
“Definitely Dad.”
Rourke continued.
“Victor once told me Patrick hid the master phrase inside a letter.”
Beatrice froze.
“A letter?”
“To you.”
She remembered the archive box.
The note from her father.
But perhaps there had been another.
“Where?”
“That I do not know.”
Desmond said, “Not useful.”
“Useful enough that Nathan has been searching Gallagher properties for years.”
Beatrice’s mind raced.
Their childhood home.
Storage units.
Her mother’s belongings.
Then she remembered one thing she had kept through every move.
A sealed envelope.
Not from her father.
Or so she believed.
Her mother had given it to her on her twenty-first birthday.
“This was supposed to come from your father,” her mother had said, “but he asked me to wait.”
Beatrice had opened it.
Inside had been an ordinary birthday card.
Nothing important.
She still had it.
“In my apartment,” she whispered.
Desmond looked at her.
“What?”
“There’s a card.”
Rourke heard.
“What card?”
She ignored him.
“My father left a birthday card with Mom. I received it after he died.”
“Where?”
“My bedroom.”
Desmond changed direction immediately.
Marco objected.
“Boss, Nathan may be watching the building.”
“He probably is.”
“So we don’t go.”
Beatrice said, “I’m going.”
“No.”
She looked at Desmond.
“Do not start.”
“You’re not walking into another trap.”
“My apartment. My letter.”
“My building.”
“This argument is becoming ridiculous.”
Rourke’s voice came from the phone.
“How domestic.”
Desmond ended the call.
Thirty minutes later, they entered the building through the service basement.
No lobby.
No elevators.
They used maintenance stairs.
Marco went first.
Desmond remained beside Beatrice.
Evan followed.
Her penthouse door looked untouched.
Marco checked.
“No forced entry.”
Beatrice unlocked it.
Everything appeared normal.
She crossed toward the bedroom.
Then stopped.
One drawer stood open.
She never left drawers open.
“Someone’s been here.”
Desmond motioned for silence.
Marco searched.
Empty.
Beatrice ran to the closet.
A storage box had been pulled down.
Photographs scattered.
Cards opened.
Her father’s birthday envelope was gone.
“No.”
She searched the floor.
Nothing.
Evan crouched.
“Bee.”
She looked.
A small piece of paper lay beneath the bed.
Beatrice picked it up.
Her father’s handwriting.
Only one line remained, torn from the missing card.
The answer is where you first learned that home is a person, not a place.
Beatrice stared.
Evan frowned.
“What does that mean?”
She remembered being seven.
A thunderstorm.
Their family car breaking down.
Her father wrapping his jacket around both children while their mother laughed in the rain.
Where had that happened?
Then she knew.
“Lake Geneva.”
Desmond looked at her.
“What’s there?”
“Our family cabin.”
Evan shook his head.
“We sold it.”
Beatrice whispered, “No.”
“What?”
“Mom told us she sold it.”
She turned toward Desmond.
“But I handled her estate.”
“So?”
“There was never a sale record.”
Someone had wanted Beatrice and Evan to believe the property was gone.
And only one person had controlled their family finances after Patrick died.
Victor Shaw.
Their father’s supposed friend.
The man who had returned from the dead tonight.
Beatrice’s phone rang.
Victor.
She answered immediately.
“You lied.”
His voice was tired.
“Yes.”
“The cabin.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To protect what Patrick left there.”
“Is Nathan going?”
A pause.
Then Victor whispered:
“He’s already there.”
And before the call ended, Beatrice heard a crash on Victor’s side.
Then Nathan’s voice.
“Tell her to hurry.”
The line went dead.
Nathan had Victor.
The final archive was waiting.
May you like
And the only road to it led straight into Nathan’s trap.
---
