Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Lakeshore Drive
Thirty minutes after Richard Caldwell was hauled away in handcuffs, the Grand Palmer Hotel’s ballroom was empty of wedding guests, but buzzing with police technicians, federal investigators, and crime scene photographers.
Jasmine sat on a velvet bench in the bridal holding room, wrapped in a thick wool blanket provided by a paramedic. Her designer gown was wrinkled, the bottom hem stained with street dust and spilled champagne.
Zoe sat on her right, munching quietly on a bag of crackers. Zayn was sound asleep with his head resting in Jasmine’s lap, exhausted from the terror of the afternoon. Zach sat on her left, his small fingers still flying across the tablet screen as Agent Sterling leaned over his shoulder, watching with open amazement.
“The kid is six years old?” Agent Sterling asked, looking at Jasmine.
“He learned to read binary before he learned his alphabet,” Jasmine said softly, running her fingers through Zayn’s dark curls. “Their father was an engineer too.”
Agent Sterling nodded respectfully. “We’ve dispatched a SWAT team and medical transport to the Caldwell Estate on Lakeshore Drive. The property is massive—ten acres, private security, subterranean garage systems. If what the recording says is true, Arthur Vance has been held in a reinforced panic room beneath the secondary guest house for nearly eight years.”
“I’m going with you,” Jasmine said, attempting to stand up.
“Ms. Taylor, you’ve been through a massive trauma,” Sterling urged, gently pressing her back down onto the bench. “It’s a active crime scene. Caldwell’s private security firm is armed, and we don't know if there are secondary traps or remote wipes initiated on the property servers.”
“Arthur Vance was my father’s best friend,” Jasmine insisted, her amber eyes burning with absolute determination. “He’s the only living person who knows how my father’s original code was constructed. More importantly, he’s a man who has been buried alive by the person I almost married. I am not sitting in a hotel room while strangers rescue him.”
Dr. Eleanor Simmons stepped forward from the doorway, holding a duffel bag containing a pair of dark jeans, a thick sweater, and practical running shoes she had retrieved from Jasmine’s hotel suite.
“She’s going, Agent Sterling,” Eleanor said with quiet authority. “And I’m going with her. I worked with David and Arthur at Lakeshore Tech. I know the original system architecture better than anyone in Caldwell’s corporate office.”
Sterling looked at the two women, then down at Zach, who looked up with wide, hopeful eyes. He let out a long sigh and tapped his earpiece. “Team Two, this is Sterling. We’re heading to the location with two technical subject matter experts. Hold the perimeter until we arrive.”
Twenty minutes later, a convoy of three dark SUVs sped through the rain-slicked streets of Chicago toward the ultra-exclusive gold coast of Lakeshore Drive.
The Caldwell Estate was a fortress of limestone, black iron railings, and tall security walls built to block out the sight of Lake Michigan. High above the gate, automated security cameras swivelled toward the approaching police vehicles, their red optic lenses glowing in the autumn dusk.
Agent Sterling’s team breached the main security gates, the iron bars swinging open after Zach’s cracked security key bypassed the primary server.
The main house was dark, silent, and grand—a cold mansion built with stolen money.
Federal officers fanned out across the manicured lawns, clearing the guest houses and the subterranean parking bay.
Jasmine, wrapped in a dark trench coat over her sweater, walked alongside Dr. Simmons and Agent Sterling toward a small, detached stone building near the rear edge of the property that looked like a garden shed.
Inside, beneath a heavy wooden workbench, sat a heavy steel hatch secured by an electronic biometric keypad and an industrial rotary lock.
“This is it,” Sterling said, shining his tactical flashlight onto the steel panel. “The lock is completely air-gapped. It’s not connected to the estate’s main Wi-Fi. We can’t override it remotely.”
Zach stepped forward from behind his mother, holding his tablet up. “It doesn't need Wi-Fi, Agent Sterling. Look at the serial number on the casing.”
Jasmine knelt beside her son, her heart skipping a beat as she read the small metal plate stamped onto the bottom of the lock: TAYLOR ENCRYPTION SYSTEMS - PATENTS PENDING 2016.
Her father had built the lock himself.
“It’s a physical sequence,” Jasmine whispered, tears pricking her eyes as she recognized her father’s signature style. “My father hated purely digital locks. He always left a physical fallback based on prime mathematical constants.”
She reached out with trembling fingers, placing her hands on the heavy iron rotary dial.
“The year I was born,” Jasmine murmured, turning the dial left to 1992. “The day my mother passed away... 04.” She paused, her breath catching in her throat as she remembered the secret sequence her father used to program into their home security system when she was a little girl. “And the number of stars in the Orion constellation...”
She spun the dial three times to the right, then pressed the center biometric pad with her palm.
A deep, pneumatic hiss echoed through the small garden shed. Heavy steel bolts retracted inside the floor with a series of loud, metallic thuds.
The heavy steel hatch slowly swung open, revealing a dark, concrete staircase leading down into the damp earth beneath the estate.
From the bottom of the stairs, a faint, trembling voice called out into the darkness.
May you like
“David...? Is that you...?”
Jasmine took a deep breath, grabbed a flashlight from Agent Sterling, and stepped down into the dark abyss.
