Chapter 12 - THE RANSOM CALL
-12-
The storm outside had raged into a full-scale blizzard by 4:00 AM, howling against the ballistic glass of the master study like an army of angry ghosts. The room was dark, illuminated only by the dying embers of the marble fireplace and the harsh, blue glow of a multi-line encrypted telephone console sitting on Harlan’s desk.
I sat rigidly in the velvet wingback chair, my hands wrapped tightly around a mug of cold tea I hadn't touched in hours. My eyes burned from lack of sleep, my mind looping through every terrifying possibility of where Belle might be, who had taken her, and whether she was warm enough in the freezing Detroit winter.
Harlan hadn't sat down once in four hours. He paced the length of the study like a caged panther, his boots clicking rhythmically against the Persian rug, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscle ticked continuously.
At exactly 4:14 AM, the encrypted console on the desk let out a single, sharp, electronic chime.
An incoming call. Restricted routing. Sat-phone relay.
Harlan stopped pacing instantly. He strode across the room, planting his hands on the edge of the desk, and hit the speakerphone button.
"Voss," he barked, his voice steady, low, and terrifyingly cold.
For three agonizing seconds, there was only static. Then, a voice filtered through the speakers—not modulated, not digitized, but clear, smooth, and chillingly familiar.
"Good morning, Harlan," the voice purred.
Harlan’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. The blood drained from his face, leaving him looking like a statue carved from white marble.
"Marcus," Harlan whispered, the name dropping like a lead weight into the quiet study.
My breath caught in my throat. I stood up so fast my chair scraped loudly against the floor. Marcus? Marcus Vance was dead. The police report from the Meridian Theater garage had confirmed it—acute fentanyl poisoning, crushed skull, body recovered from Level 3.
"Surprised, old friend?" the voice on the speaker laughed, a rich, mocking sound. "Police reports are so easily manipulated when you own the coroner's office. You really thought a little bump on the head and a bad batch of synthetic opioids was going to keep me down?"
"Where is my daughter, Marcus?" Harlan demanded, his voice dropping into a dark, razor-sharp baritone that vibrated through the room. "If you've laid a single finger on her—"
"Save the melodrama, Harlan," Marcus interrupted smoothly. "Belle is warm, she’s fed, and she’s currently watching cartoons in a very secure, undisclosed location overlooking Lake Michigan. She’s a wonderful child. It would be a terrible shame if she grew up without a father."
"Name your price," Harlan stated flatly, cutting straight through the verbal sparring. "Money, shipping routes, the St. Lawrence Seaway contracts—take it all. Just tell me what you want."
"I don't want your money, Harlan," Marcus said, his tone turning cold and predatory. "I want your crown. I want the complete, unconditional transfer of the Voss Shipping Empire, signed over to my proxy by noon today. And... there is a small condition regarding your new domestic assistant."
Marcus’s voice shifted, directing itself squarely at me across the speakerphone.
"Miss Callaway," Marcus purred. "You thought you were so clever playing detective in the parking garage. Pack your bags. If you want to see the little girl you saved alive again... you are going to be the one who brings me the signed transfer papers. Alone. At the abandoned Packard Automotive Plant by noon."
The line went dead with a sharp click.
The study plunged into an absolute, suffocating silence.
Harlan stood motionless over the console, his hands gripping the mahogany desk so hard his knuckles turned bone-white. The illusion of his untouchable empire had been shattered by a ghost from his past, and his daughter’s life was now hanging by a thread.
"He's setting a trap," I said, stepping forward, my voice trembling with a mixture of fear and fierce resolve. "He doesn't want the shipping empire, Harlan. He wants both of us in one place so he can wipe out the Voss name once and for all."
May you like
Harlan slowly lifted his head, his dark eyes locking onto mine. The terrifying, ruthless warlord was gone; in his place stood a desperate father staring at the edge of a cliff.
"Then we are going to walk right into his trap," Harlan said, his voice absolute and unyielding. "And we are going to burn him to the ground."
