Chapter 9 - The UndergroundThe storm drain was slick with moss and smelled of stagnant water and decaying leaves. Owen moved as quickly as he dared in the dim light of Marcus's flashlight, his boots splashing through ankle-deep puddles. Mara had her face buried in his neck, trembling silently. She hadn't made a sound since they went underground.
"How far?" Marcus whispered, walking backward to keep his weapon aimed at the tunnel behind them, just in case the corrupt cops found the hatch.
"Another four hundred yards," Owen breathed heavily. "It opens up into a ravine near the old highway."
Twenty agonizing minutes later, they saw the faint, grey light of the early morning filtering through a rusted iron grate. Marcus holstered his gun and helped Owen push the heavy grate aside. They climbed out into the biting morning chill, the woods shielding them from the road.
"My truck is parked at a diner three miles south of here," Marcus said, checking his watch. "We stay in the tree line until we reach it. We can't trust the roads, and we can't trust your cell phone. Toss it."
Owen pulled his smartphone from his pocket. It contained all his contacts, his banking apps, his life. He threw it into the ravine without hesitation.
An hour later, soaked to the bone and shivering, they reached the diner. Marcus's battered Ford F-150 was waiting in the back lot. They piled in, cranking the heat.
"Where to?" Owen asked, wrapping Mara in an old fleece blanket he found in the backseat.
"I have a contact at the FBI field office in Chicago," Marcus said, putting the truck in drive and pulling out onto the desolate highway. "A guy who doesn't play local politics. But we can't just hand him a plastic memory card and expect him to raid a billion-dollar tech firm. We need to verify what's on it, and we need to make it public. Once the data is out there, Greg can't put the genie back in the bottle."
They drove for three hours, crossing state lines, before pulling into a gritty, no-name motel that only accepted cash. Once inside the dingy room, Marcus produced a burner laptop from his duffel bag.
Owen plugged the micro-SD card in.
The screen flickered to life. It was a goldmine of corruption. Spreadsheets detailing tens of millions of dollars funneled through Vanguard's offshore accounts. Audio recordings of Greg speaking directly to cartel liaisons. And worst of all, an email thread between Greg and Elena, explicitly ordering the hit on Sarah's car.
Tears pricked Owen's eyes as he read the words. It was black and white. Cold and calculated.
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"He's going to burn," Owen whispered, his voice trembling with a terrifying, absolute resolve. "But handing this to the FBI isn't enough. He's signing the Vanguard sale tomorrow at noon. The entire board of directors will be there, plus the media."
"So we crash the party," Marcus said, a dangerous smirk crossing his face.
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