Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Hotel
I picked up the phone.
The screen glowed with a false warmth.
"My love," the message read.
"Your parents just finished a big Sunday dinner."
"Keaton is playing with his new LEGO set in his room."
"We miss you so much, but we are so proud of the work you do."
"Keep it up, Alisha. We're almost finished with the guest house."
Attached was a photo.
It showed my mother and father sitting at a beautiful oak table.
There was a roast chicken in the center.
They were wearing clean, expensive clothes and smiling at the camera.
I looked at my mother.
She was standing two feet away from me.
She was wearing a hotel robe, her eyes red and her skin sallow.
I looked at the photo again.
The shadows on the wall in the picture...
The sunlight coming through the window...
The clock on the mantle in the background...
"Mom," I said, my voice trembling. "When was the last time Donald saw you?"
"This morning," she whispered.
"He came to the station. He had two men with him."
"They forced us into the back of a van."
"They took us to a studio... a place with fake walls."
"They made us put on those clothes."
"They told us if we didn't smile, they would burn Keaton’s hands."
My stomach did a violent flip.
The photo wasn't an old one.
It had been taken today.
And Donald had sent it to me ten minutes ago.
That meant he knew I wasn't in Miami.
He knew I was in Atlanta.
He might even know which hotel I was in.
I walked to the door and engaged the deadbolt and the security chain.
I looked at my phone and saw a small, flashing red dot in the corner of the photo.
I zoomed in.
In the reflection of a mirror in the "studio," I saw a man holding a professional camera.
Behind him was a laptop screen.
The screen was displaying a GPS map.
It was a map of the city.
And there was a blue pulsing dot right on top of our hotel.
"They're watching us," I whispered.
"Donald isn't just a thief. He's a hunter."
He wasn't just lying to get money anymore.
He was trying to keep his "investment" from escaping.
He knew that if I got away, the $35,000 a month would stop.
And men like Big Mike don't like it when the money stops.
I realized then that Donald wasn't the one in charge.
He was a puppet for Big Mike.
And I had just walked into the center of their web.
I grabbed my laptop and logged into a secure account I hadn't touched in years.
It was an offshore account my employer in Miami had helped me set up as a "bonus."
It held $500,000.
Money Donald didn't know existed.
"If you want to play at being a criminal, Donald," I muttered.
"I'll show you what a real professional looks like."
I sent a single message to a contact in Miami.
May you like
“The bird is in the cage. I need the cleaners. Now.”
***
