Chapter 10 - A Name from Interstate 95
The sedan stopped beneath an abandoned office building near the industrial waterfront.
Caleb’s driver escorted me through a service entrance.
No blindfold.
That meant one of two things.
Either Caleb planned to let me leave.
Or he was confident I wouldn’t.
I preferred the first possibility.
The building smelled like damp concrete.
We climbed one floor.
Two men guarded a steel door.
Inside, Jonah sat in his wheelchair.
Shirt damp with sweat.
Face pale.
Jaw clenched.
Relief hit me so hard my knees almost weakened.
I hid it.
“Move,” I told Caleb.
He stood beside the window.
“You’re late.”
I looked directly at him.
“My car tried to die.”
Jonah made a strangled sound that could have been a laugh.
Even now.
Caleb didn’t appreciate it.
“What’s wrong with him?”
I crouched beside Jonah.
“Headache?”
“Yes.”
“Severe?”
“Yes.”
“Any bladder pressure?”
He gave me a look that said he understood immediately.
Autonomic dysreflexia could occur in certain spinal cord injuries when the body reacted dramatically to irritation below the injury level.
Potential triggers included bladder problems, bowel problems, tight clothing, pressure, skin issues.
Blood pressure could become dangerously high.
I checked him.
Caleb had left the catheter tubing kinked beneath the wheelchair frame.
I fixed it.
“Sit him upright.”
“He is upright.”
“More.”
Caleb hesitated.
“Do it.”
Something in my medical tone worked.
They assisted.
I loosened constrictive clothing.
Monitored blood pressure.
Jonah’s eyes remained on me.
“Why did you come?”
“Because apparently kidnapping yourself twice in one week wasn’t enough attention.”
“I didn’t kidnap myself the first time.”
“Debatable.”
Caleb interrupted.
“Can you fix him?”
“I already am.”
“How long?”
“Depends.”
He disliked uncertainty.
People who built elaborate plans usually did.
I deliberately moved slowly.
Not irresponsibly.
Just carefully.
Jonah’s pressure began improving.
His breathing eased.
Caleb watched.
“Better?”
“Yes.”
“Then leave.”
I stood.
“No.”
Caleb smiled.
“You misunderstand your position.”
“I need to monitor him.”
“He’ll survive.”
“That wasn’t your concern thirty seconds ago.”
His expression sharpened.
Jonah spoke.
“Let her stay.”
Caleb looked at him.
“You’ve become surprisingly attached to hired help.”
The phrase changed Jonah’s face.
“You should stop talking.”
Caleb laughed.
“There he is.”
I looked around.
Two guards.
One door.
One hallway.
My transmitter remained active.
Frank would know our location by now.
The problem was timing.
If security moved too soon, Caleb might hurt Jonah.
If they waited too long, Caleb could move us.
“What happened on Interstate 95?” I asked.
Caleb stared.
Jonah’s eyes warned me.
I continued.
“Adrian says you were there.”
“Adrian talks too much.”
“So do I.”
“I noticed.”
“Why?”
Caleb paced toward the window.
“You really want a confession?”
“I’m curious.”
“Curiosity isn’t a survival skill.”
“No. But conversation is excellent for filling awkward silences.”
Jonah knew what I was doing.
Keep Caleb talking.
Keep him occupied.
Give Frank time.
Caleb seemed to know too.
But arrogance is powerful.
He wanted someone to understand how clever he had been.
“Jonah’s father built everything around loyalty,” Caleb said. “As if loyalty paid invoices.”
Jonah’s voice remained cold.
“My father trusted you.”
“Your father used me.”
“He paid you extremely well.”
“That isn’t respect.”
There it was.
Not just money.
Resentment.
Caleb had spent years beside men whose power he believed exceeded their intelligence.
“I knew every weakness in Mercer Holdings,” he said. “Every hidden account. Every unofficial shipment. Every political payment.”
“You stole from him,” I said.
“I corrected compensation.”
Jonah almost smiled.
“You embezzled.”
“Semantics.”
“And Adrian noticed.”
Caleb’s expression tightened.
“Adrian always thought he was smarter than everyone.”
“You had him declared dead.”
“I needed him gone.”
Jonah’s jaw tightened.
“What about me?”
“You were supposed to die.”
The room became still.
Even knowing it was different from hearing it.
Jonah looked at Caleb.
“You were there.”
“Yes.”
Memory passed across Jonah’s face.
A fragment.
I saw it.
His breathing changed.
“The road,” he whispered.
Caleb stopped.
Jonah stared past him.
“Headlights.”
I remained silent.
“Frank turned.”
His fingers tightened.
“Truck.”
Another fragment.
“Then the sedan.”
Caleb’s confidence faded.
Jonah’s eyes widened slightly.
“You came to the window.”
Caleb said nothing.
“You spoke.”
Jonah’s voice became distant.
“What did I say?”
Caleb smiled.
“A lot of things.”
Jonah’s face twisted with concentration.
Then he remembered.
Not everything.
One sentence.
His eyes locked onto Caleb.
“You said, ‘Tell your father I finally balanced the books.’”
Silence.
I looked at Caleb.
“His father?”
Something in Caleb’s face broke.
Only slightly.
But enough.
Jonah understood.
“Elias Crowne isn’t your partner.”
Caleb said nothing.
“He’s your father.”
I stared.
Frank had called the spelling coincidence.
Crowne.
Caleb Ross.
Different names.
Different histories.
But family relationships could hide beneath paperwork.
Jonah continued.
“Your mother remarried.”
Caleb’s eyes hardened.
“You knew?”
“I knew your mother’s name. I didn’t know Crowne fathered you.”
That explained the motivation.
Not merely embezzlement.
A family vendetta.
Caleb walked closer.
“My father lost everything because of yours.”
Jonah shook his head.
“Your father lost a shipping contract.”
“He lost his company.”
“He gambled the rest away.”
“You always believed the Mercer version.”
“I read the court records.”
Caleb’s hand moved.
Not toward a gun.
Toward his phone.
I knew what that meant.
Move location.
End conversation.
Time was running out.
I deliberately knocked my medical bag off the chair.
Supplies scattered.
Caleb looked down instinctively.
I kicked a small metal blood-pressure gauge beneath the cabinet.
It struck the hidden transmitter booster Frank had told me to activate only if absolutely necessary.
A tiny green light flashed.
Signal locked.
Caleb noticed.
His eyes narrowed.
“What was that?”
“Medical equipment.”
He stepped toward me.
Jonah moved.
Fast.
His wheelchair slammed sideways into Caleb’s legs.
Caleb stumbled.
I jumped backward.
The door exploded inward.
Frank.
Adrian.
Security.
Everything happened in seconds.
Guards surrendered.
Caleb reached inside his coat.
Frank aimed.
“Don’t.”
Caleb froze.
Jonah looked at him from the floor where his wheelchair had tipped partially sideways.
I rushed to him.
“You idiot.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You could have hurt yourself.”
“I was already kidnapped.”
“Not medically relevant.”
He laughed once.
Frank restrained Caleb.
Nobody fired.
Nobody died.
For one perfect second, I believed it was over.
Then Adrian searched Caleb’s phone.
His face changed.
“What?”
He showed Frank.
Message sent three minutes earlier.
To Elias Crowne.
THEY FOUND ME. USE THE SECOND PLAN.
Frank looked at Jonah.
“What second plan?”
Jonah went pale.
“The waterfront.”
“What about it?”
Jonah stared toward the window.
“Crowne isn’t trying to kill me anymore.”
A distant explosion shook the glass.
Not near us.
Farther toward Baltimore Harbor.
Jonah’s phone began ringing.
One of his warehouse managers.
Then another.
Then another.
He answered the first.
Fire alarms.
Evacuations.
Simultaneous sabotage at three Mercer properties.
Crowne wasn’t targeting Jonah.
May you like
He was targeting everything Jonah owned.
And if Jonah wanted to stop him, he would have to return to the waterfront he had avoided since the night he was shot.
