Chapter 2: The Black Town Car
The digital clock on my bedside table glowed 2:14 AM when the low, metallic thrum of an idling engine vibrated through my floorboards. I sat up instantly, blankets tangled around my waist, sweat cooling on the back of my neck. In this neighborhood, cars idled outside at all hours, but this engine had a deep, controlled purr—the unmistakable sound of a high-end luxury vehicle. I padded quietly across the linoleum floor and parted the thin cotton curtain just enough to look down at the rain-slicked street.
Parked directly beneath the flickering amber streetlamp was a long, obsidian town car. Its tinted windows absorbed the harsh sodium light, revealing nothing of who waited inside. My hand went instinctively to the pocket of the trousers I had worn earlier that evening, draped over the back of a wooden chair. The heavy metal card was still there, cold and solid.
A sharp rap sounded at my apartment door.
The sound cut through the quiet night like a gunshot. I froze, my breath catching in my throat. Nobody knocked on my door at two in the morning—certainly not landlords or bill collectors, who preferred slips of paper jammed under the frame. Another three knocks followed, measured, firm, and entirely devoid of hesitation.
"Emily," a muffled voice called out through the heavy wood. It was a man's voice, low and devoid of local accent. "Mr. Vance requests your presence downstairs."
"I'm not going anywhere," I called back, my voice shaking slightly more than I intended. "If he wants to talk to me, he can wait until morning, or better yet, never."
"The streets aren't safe for you tonight, Miss Chen. Not after what happened at the restaurant. Open the door, please."
I pressed my back against the cool wall beside the entrance. Vance. So that was his name. Marcus Vance. The name carried no public footprint I could recall from the news or financial journals, but the tone of the man outside left no room for debate. I walked to the kitchen counter, picked up my heavy iron skillet by its handle, and crept back to the door. With my left hand, I twisted the deadbolt and jerked the door inward three inches, secured by the heavy brass chain.
Standing in the dim hallway was a tall man in a charcoal suit, his expression carved from granite. He didn't look down at the skillet; his dark eyes met mine with cold professionalism.
"The car is heated," the man said simply. "Mr. Vance does not repeat invitations."
"Tell Mr. Vance I have a shift at noon," I replied, refusing to lower the skillet. "And I don't take midnight rides with men who show up like ghosts."
"Mr. Vance knows your schedule better than you do, Miss Chen. He also knows that the men who were watching the elderly woman at the restaurant are currently parked two blocks north. They aren't looking for her anymore. They're looking for the waitress who intervened."
May you like
The words hit me like a splash of freezing water. The elderly woman—her pale, trembling hands, the look of quiet desperation she had cast before I stepped between her table and the aggressive men towering over her. I had thought it was a personal dispute, a family matter gone sour. The reality was far heavier.
"Give me five minutes to change," I whispered, the iron skillet sliding down my leg.
