Chapter 6 - The Setup
The following afternoon, the winter sun broke through the heavy clouds, casting long, sharp shadows across the harbor.
Mason sat in his private office, reviewing the financial audit of Apex Property Trust. The numbers were damning. Millions of dollars skimmed from subsidized housing grants had been funneled through shell companies directly into accounts controlled by the Chicago syndicate.
The intercom on his desk buzzed sharply.
“Mr. Vale?” Sarah’s voice came through, sounding uncharacteristically tense. “You have an urgent visitor in the downstairs lobby. He refuses to state his name, but he insists it concerns the Elm Street housing case.”
Mason frowned, glancing at his watch. “Did he leave a card?”
“No, sir. He said he has physical evidence regarding the original deed transfers from thirty years ago—documents that could permanently shut down the property trust today.”
Mason hesitated for a fraction of a second. Something felt off. The legal framework he had set in motion was airtight; physical deeds shouldn't require an anonymous hand-off in the lobby.
“Send security down to escort him up here,” Mason instructed.
“He... he won't come up, Mr. Vale,” Sarah replied, her voice dropping lower. “He said he’s waiting in the underground parking garage, sector four. He claims he’s being watched and didn’t want to risk the corporate cameras upstairs.”
Mason stood up slowly, a knot of unease tightening in his stomach. Parking garage, sector four. It was poorly lit, heavily shadowed, and rarely monitored by the main security desk during daytime shift changes.
“Call campus security,” Mason said, reaching for his coat. “Have them meet me in sector four in two minutes.”
“Yes, sir,” Sarah said.
Mason slipped his trench coat on, strode out of his office, and took the private executive elevator down to the subterranean levels. The heavy steel doors slid open with a soft hum, revealing the cavernous, damp concrete expanse of the underground parking garage. Rows of luxury sedans sat quietly under flickering fluorescent lights.
“Sector four,” Mason muttered to himself, walking briskly toward the far corner of the garage where the concrete pillars cast long, deep shadows.
As he turned the corner by a row of industrial storage lockers, he stopped.
There was no informant.
Instead, three heavy-set men in dark wool coats stepped out from behind a concrete pillar, blocking his path. Their faces were grim, their movements practiced and deliberate.
Mason instantly took a step back, reaching for his phone, but a heavy hand gripped his shoulder with bone-crushing force from behind.
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“Nice try, counselor,” a gravelly voice hissed in his ear.
Before Mason could swing an elbow or call for help, a thick rag soaked in a pungent chemical compound was clamped firmly over his mouth and nose. He struggled fiercely, his fists slamming against the concrete pillar, but the fumes hit his lungs with overwhelming speed. The bright fluorescent lights overhead began to blur, spinning into wild, erratic streaks of white and black, until the concrete floor rushed up to meet him and everything went completely dark.
