Chapter 4 - The Hunt for Leo
Three days had passed since the gala, and the search for Leo had become an obsession for Marcus Hale.
He had deployed private investigators, drone surveillance units, and undercover informants across every impoverished district, subway station, and alleyway in the metropolitan area. Yet, it was as if the boy had dissolved into thin air. No security camera had captured him leaving the estate grounds; no shelter log recorded his name.
On the fourth afternoon, Marcus decided to take matters into his own hands. Ditching his tailored Italian suits and luxury sports cars, he dressed in a simple dark wool coat and drove an unmarked sedan into the old docklands—the rough, forgotten underbelly of the city where the wealthy never tread.
The rain was coming down in sheets, turning the cobblestone streets into glistening mirrors reflecting neon signs of pawnshops and dive bars.
Marcus parked near an abandoned railway yard where homeless encampments stretched beneath the rusted iron overpasses. He stepped out into the freezing drizzle, pulling his coat tight around his neck.
"Mr. Hale?"
Marcus spun around, his hand instinctively reaching inside his coat where a licensed firearm rested in its holster.
Standing beneath the flickering light of a broken streetlamp was an old man with a weathered face, wearing a frayed canvas jacket and holding a steaming paper cup of black coffee. It was Thomas, the veteran security guard who had worked the night shift at the city’s central transit hub for twenty years.
"Thomas? What are you doing out here?" Marcus asked, lowering his hand.
"I heard you were looking for the boy," Thomas said, taking a slow sip of his coffee. "Everyone in the district is talking about the billionaire who lost his mind over a kid who performs miracles. You won't find him by sending suits in black SUVs, Mr. Hale. The streets don't trust guys in ties."
"Then how do I find him?" Marcus demanded, frustration bleeding through his composure.
"You don't find him. He finds you," Thomas said, pointing a gnarled finger toward the dark labyrinth of shipping containers stacked near the freezing harbor. "That boy... he isn't like the other kids down here. He doesn't beg for food. He sits by the water and talks to the gulls. And people who get too close to him... well, they say he leaves clues for those who are actually looking, not just those who want to buy him off."
Marcus stared into the dark expanse of the harbor. "Why him? Why my children?"
"Maybe because your house was the only one in the city where there was too much wealth and not enough life," Thomas replied simply, turning away into the rain. "Good luck, Mr. Hale. You’re going to need it. Because your sister isn't just sending board members after you anymore. She’s hired professionals."
May you like
Marcus froze. "Professionals?"
"Private fixers," Thomas called back over his shoulder. "Men who don't care about corporate stocks. Men who clean up problems permanently."
