Chapter 5 - The Trap is Set
The rain had finally stopped, leaving Greyhaven wrapped in a cold, damp autumn mist.
Inside a private dining room at The Grandview, the city’s most exclusive members-only club, Grant Holloway sat at the head of a polished mahogany table. He poured himself a glass of twenty-year-old scotch, his hand trembling slightly despite his calm exterior.
Fourteen days had passed since the nurse disappeared on County Route 17.
Fourteen days since his enforcers assured him she was at the bottom of the river.
Yet, whispers had begun circulating through the underground circuits of Pennsylvania. Rumors that the stolen flash drive hadn't been destroyed. Rumors that someone powerful was buying up St. Catherine’s hospital debt and calling in every outstanding note held by the board members.
Holloway’s phone buzzed sharply against the table. He snatched it up, answering on the first ring.
“Talk to me,” Holloway snapped.
“We have a problem, Mr. Holloway,” a tense voice came through the speaker. One of his private security heads. “We traced the digital ping from the backup server. It’s coming from downtown. An abandoned freight warehouse near the rail yards.”
“Get over there and clean it up,” Holloway hissed. “I don't care who is inside. Burn it to the ground if you have to.”
“We’re already outside, sir. But... you need to see this.”
“See what?”
“There’s a car parked by the loading dock. A black Mercedes Maybach. Registered to a holding company linked to Dominic Valtieri.”
Holloway’s blood ran cold. The glass of scotch slipped from his fingers, shattering against the Persian carpet.
“Valtieri?” Holloway choked out. “What does he have to do with this?”
“I don't know, sir. But the front doors are unlocked. And someone left a package on the loading desk with your name on it.”
Thirty minutes later, Grant Holloway burst through the rusted iron doors of the old rail warehouse, flanked by four armed guards. The cavernous industrial space was dark, illuminated only by the harsh glare of overhead halogen work lights.
Sitting alone in the center of the concrete floor was a single metal chair.
On the seat rested a thick manila envelope and a small laptop displaying a live video feed.
Holloway motioned frantically to his lead guard. “Check the perimeter! Sweep the rafters!”
As the guards scattered into the shadows, Holloway cautiously approached the chair. His hands shook as he picked up the manila envelope and tore it open. Inside were printed copies of bank statements, offshore routing numbers, and signed medical falsification orders bearing his own initials.
Then, the laptop screen flickered.
The video feed activated, showing a crisp, high-definition image of Evelyn Whitmore sitting in a leather armchair, looking healthy, composed, and alive. Standing directly behind her, resting a hand calmly on the back of the chair, was Dominic Valtieri.
Holloway stared at the screen in absolute horror.
“Hello, Grant,” Evelyn’s voice echoed clearly through the warehouse speakers. “If you’re watching this, it means your men failed to kill me on Route 17. It also means Dominic has already distributed copies of this file to the U.S. Attorney General, the FBI field office in Philadelphia, and every major news outlet in the state.”
“No,” Holloway muttered, stumbling backward. “No, that’s impossible.”
Dominic leaned down slightly toward the camera lens, a cold, predatory smile crossing his face.
May you like
“You picked the wrong nurse, Grant,” Dominic’s deep voice resonated through the empty warehouse. “And you stepped into the wrong city.”
Before Holloway could reach for his phone, the heavy iron doors at the entrance of the warehouse slammed shut with a deafening crash. Heavy footsteps echoed from the darkness.
