Chapter 34 Ledger
LEDGER
My meeting runs twenty minutes over schedule. Dario Sokolov insists on reviewing every detail of the proposed alliance three times, questioning numbers that have already been verified, and demanding assurances that I’ve already given.
I pull out my phone as I walk to the car. Six missed calls. One from Savannah. Five from Alexi. I dial Savannah first. It rings once, then goes to a generic voicemail, like her phone is off or destroyed.
I try again. Same thing.
“Marcus, drive faster,” I tell my driver as I dial Alexi.
He answers on the first ring. “Dad, where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling for an hour.”
“I was in a meeting. What’s wrong?”
“Savannah texted me forty-five minutes ago. Said FBI agents showed up at the penthouse. That they were taking her for questioning.” His voice is tight with panic.
“I tried calling her back, but her phone goes straight to voicemail. I tried calling the penthouse, but no one’s answering. Not the guards, not Marie, not anyone.”
“What exactly did her text say?”
“Hold on.” I hear him pulling it up. “FBI agents here. Taking me to federal courthouse for questioning. Stewart Ave. Something feels wrong. Call me. That was it. Sent at 2:03 PM.”
“Stewart Avenue doesn’t have a federal courthouse. The federal court is on Las Vegas Boulevard.”
“I know. That’s why I’ve been calling you. Dad, something’s wrong.”
“It’s not the FBI.” I’m already dialing Silas. “It’s the Kozlovs. They found a way in.”
“How? We have security everywhere. Multiple checkpoints. There’s no way they could—”
“Someone on the inside. Had to be.” Silas answers, and I don’t give him time to speak. “Savannah’s been taken. Fake FBI agents showed up at the penthouse an hour ago. I need you to pull all security footage from the building immediately. Find out who let them through.”
“On it. Where are you?”
“Ten minutes out. Get everyone to the penthouse. Now.”
I hang up and lean forward. “Marcus, run every red light. I don’t care if we get pulled over.”
“Yes, sir.”
The city blurs past as we weave through traffic. I try Savannah’s phone again. Still nothing.
I try the penthouse landline. It rings and rings. No answer.
I try, Pedro. His phone goes to voicemail after one ring.
Wrong. Everything about this is wrong.
My phone buzzes with a text from Savannah’s number: I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore. I need space. Don’t look for me.
I stare at the message. Read it three times.
What the fuck?
I call the number, and it goes straight to voicemail.
Another text comes through: I left some things at the penthouse. I’ll send for them later. Please don’t contact me.
“Faster,” I tell Marcus.
We screech to a stop outside my building twelve minutes later. I’m out of the car before it fully stops, running for the entrance.
The lobby is empty. No guards at the security desk. No one at the checkpoints. The metal detector is turned off, the ID scanner dark.
I take the stairs instead of the elevator, climbing two at a time. My phone rings—Silas.
“Talk to me.”
“I’m reviewing the footage now. Two men in suits entered the building at 1:52 PM. They had FBI badges, showed them to the guard on duty—Isaac Reeves, one of the newer hires. He verified their credentials and let them through.”
“Where’s Isaac now?”
“Gone. His phone is off. His apartment is empty. Looks like he cleared out in a hurry.”
“So he was working with them.”
“Looks that way. The footage shows the two men going up to your floor with Isaac. They’re up there for eleven minutes. Then they come back down with Savannah. She’s walking between them, looks like she’s going voluntarily, but—” He pauses. “Her body language is off. She looks scared.”
“Where’s Pedro?”
“That’s the thing. Pedro left his post at 1:47 PM. Five minutes before the fake agents arrived. Security logs show he went down to the parking garage for a reported breach. But there was no breach. Someone called it in using a spoofed number.”
“So they lured him away first.”
“Yeah. By the time he realized it was fake and got back upstairs, Savannah was already gone. He called me at 2:34 PM asking where she was, said he found the penthouse empty.”
“Where is he now?”
“Sitting in his car outside the building. Waiting for you.”
I reach my floor. The hallway is empty. No guard at the elevator. No one outside my door. I unlock the penthouse and step inside.
“I’m here,” I tell Silas. “It’s empty.”
“I’m on my way. ETA fifteen minutes.”
I hang up and walk through the penthouse slowly. Everything looks normal at first glance. The furniture is in place. The TV is off. Savannah’s lunch dishes are still on the dining table, half-eaten salad abandoned.
But then I notice the small things.
Her purse is gone from the table by the door where she always leaves it.
The bedroom closet is half-empty. Clothes missing. The overnight bag we bought for the hospital is gone.
I open the bathroom. Her toiletries are gone. Toothbrush, makeup, and the prenatal vitamins she takes every morning.
In my office, I check the safe. It’s open. Not broken into—opened with the code. Twenty thousand in cash is missing. The emergency credit cards I kept there are gone.
I sit at my desk and pull up our bank accounts on my computer. Three withdrawals in the past hour. Five thousand from checking. Ten thousand from savings. Another five from the emergency account. All made from Savannah’s phone, using the banking app with her fingerprint.
I stare at the transactions. At the empty closet.
In the text messages, she says she needs space. It looks like she left. Packed her things, took money, walked out voluntarily, but it doesn’t add up with the text Alexi received.
My phone rings. Alexi. “Did you find her?” he asks.
“She’s gone. The penthouse is empty.”
“What do you mean, gone?”
“Someone took her. Made it look like she left on her own.” I pull up the security footage on my computer, scrubbing through to find the timestamp. “Fake FBI agents. One of our own guards helped them.”
“Jesus. What do we do?”
“Find her. Before they—” I can’t finish the sentence. Can’t say out loud what the Kozlovs will do to her.
“I’m coming over.”
“No. Stay where you are. If they took Savannah, they might come for you next.”
“I’m not hiding while—”
“That’s an order.” My voice comes out harsher than I intended. “Stay at your place. Lock the doors. I’ll send men to watch your building.”
The elevator dings. I pull my gun and move to the door.
Silas steps out, hands raised. “It’s me.”
I lower the weapon. “Tell me you have something.”
“Maybe. The SUV they used was caught on traffic cameras heading east on Tropicana. We lost it near the industrial district, but I have men searching every warehouse in a five-mile radius.”
“That’s not good enough. We need to know exactly where they took her.”
“I’m working on it.”
I walk to the nursery. Stand in the doorway looking at the room we spent months preparing. The crib. The rocking chair. The name embroidered on the blanket.
Dante.
“They’re going to send demands,” I say quietly. “In a day, maybe two. Once they’ve had time to terrorize her. To make her think I’m not coming.”
“And then?”
“And then we give them whatever they want. Pay whatever they ask. Agree to whatever terms they set.” I turn to face him. “And the second I have her back, I kill every single one of them.”
“We don’t negotiate with—”
“We do when it’s my wife and child.” My voice is steel. “I don’t care about pride or precedent or sending the wrong message. I care about getting Savannah back alive.”
“Understood.” Silas pulls out his phone. “I’ll put the word out. Every contact we have, every informant, every person who owes us a favor. Someone knows where they took her.”
“Offer money. A lot of it. Immunity from prosecution. Whatever it takes.”
He nods and steps into the hallway to make calls.
I stand alone in the nursery, staring at the empty crib. The room is silent except for the faint mechanical sound of the mobile when I wind it up. Elephants and stars spinning in slow circles.
Savannah was here four hours ago. Standing in this doorway, one hand on her stomach, probably thinking about our son.
And now she’s in the hands of people who want to cut that baby out of her and send him to me in pieces.
My phone buzzes. Another text from her number: I know you’re looking for me. Please stop. I made my choice. I need to start over somewhere new. Somewhere safe.
They can send all the fake texts they want. They can make it look like she left voluntarily.
But I know my wife. And she wouldn’t leave me.
I walk back to my office and pull up every file I have on Dmitri Kozlov. Every known associate. Every business front. Every property they own, rent, or have access to.
Somewhere in this city, they’re holding her. And I’m going to find her.
Even if I have to burn Vegas to the ground to do it.