Chapter 4 - The Voice from Aleppo
Freya grabbed the transmitter and moved behind the door.
It opened.
Gabriel stepped inside.
She nearly struck him.
He caught her wrist.
“Easy.”
“You don’t knock?”
“You screamed.”
“I didn’t.”
They both stopped.
Gabriel looked toward the transmitter.
“What is that?”
Freya made a decision.
A dangerous one.
“Something hidden beneath your bed.”
His expression sharpened.
“This room was searched yesterday.”
“Then somebody put it here afterward.”
Gabriel took the device.
Freya did not tell him what Elias had said.
Not yet.
They reviewed security footage.
At 1:43 a.m., the hallway camera went dark for forty-one seconds.
Only three people had access.
Gabriel.
His security chief.
Arthur.
By breakfast, Arthur had disappeared.
Gabriel sent men to find him.
Freya insisted on returning to her apartment.
Gabriel objected.
She went anyway.
He followed.
Inside her apartment, nothing seemed disturbed.
Freya went directly to an old sewing box belonging to her mother.
Empty.
Her stomach dropped.
The memory card was gone.
Someone had known exactly where she kept it.
Gabriel watched her face.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re terrible at lying.”
“And you’re professionally experienced at it.”
He almost smiled.
Then Freya noticed the dust.
The sewing box had been moved recently.
Beneath it was a piece of paper.
A phone number.
She called.
A woman answered in Arabic.
“Lark?”
Freya gripped the phone.
“Who is this?”
“You don’t remember my voice.”
Then she did.
Dr. Samira Haddad.
A Syrian physician who had worked with Elias.
Officially, Samira had died in the same attack.
Freya whispered, “You’re dead.”
“Many people needed to believe that.”
Gabriel watched her.
Samira continued.
“Elias survived the first explosion.”
Freya closed her eyes.
“What?”
“He survived.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know anymore.”
Freya fought to breathe.
Samira told her the attack had never been random. Elias had discovered a trafficking network using military intelligence, criminal shipping routes, and corrupt contractors.
The memory card contained names.
One belonged to a man close to Gabriel.
“Arthur?”
Samira went silent.
Then said, “Arthur was only the knife.”
“Who held it?”
The line crackled.
“You need to find Elias.”
“Where?”
“Ask Mercer about Saint Jude.”
The call ended.
Freya looked at Gabriel.
“What is Saint Jude?”
His face lost color.
“How do you know that name?”
“Answer me.”
Gabriel turned toward the window.
“Saint Jude was a warehouse.”
“Was?”
“It burned six years ago.”
“When?”
He looked at her.
“The night Elias Ward supposedly died.”
They drove there.
The warehouse had been abandoned after the fire.
Gabriel broke the rusted lock.
Inside they found ash, broken pallets, and an old office.
Freya searched the desk.
One drawer was locked.
Gabriel forced it open.
Inside was a cassette recorder.
Freya pressed PLAY.
Elias’s voice filled the room.
“If Freya Sullivan is hearing this, then I failed to keep her out of it.”
She covered her mouth.
Gabriel became motionless.
The recording continued.
“The Chicago operation has two leaders. Arthur Keane is one.”
Static.
“The other is—”
The tape stopped.
Freya turned it over.
The remaining section had been deliberately cut away.
Then a voice spoke behind them.
“You always were difficult to protect, Freya.”
She turned.
A man stood in the doorway.
Older.
Scarred.
May you like
Alive.
Elias Ward lowered his gun.
