Chapter 11 #2
He says it like it’s no big deal. Like wiring a surveillance hub, installing a massive panic room, and building a hidden armory was just another weekly errand.
The kitchen and living room is first on the tour.
Double island. Built-in espresso bar. A fridge that could totally fit a body inside.
There’s an armory tucked behind a fingerprint-locked wine cabinet, like these guys actually drink wine.
Should have put it behind a whiskey barrel or some shit like that.
I raise an eyebrow. Tex shrugs. “Multi-functional.”
A hidden surveillance command center, reminiscent of something you’d find at NASA, is concealed behind a bookshelf in the living room.
The view of New York from the living room is breathtaking, but it pales in comparison to the rooftop.
Zeke has created an urban oasis up there. A terrace complete with a pool, string lights, elegant loungers, and tables that all overlook the entire, sprawling city. It’s a spectacular sight that genuinely steals your breath away.
“I could totally live up here.” I say.
We come back inside, but before we continue, I stop.
“Why now?” I ask, voice quieter. “Why didn’t you get us out earlier? You said this place was supposed to be for the three of us.”
“We had to make sure everything was in place,” Mr. Acronym says after a quick pause. “Pulling you out too early could’ve tipped off the entirely wrong people. Carlos and Vince had ties. Real ones. Big ones that we still need to find. Carlos was being wa—”
“Zeke was still a minor,” Tex cuts him off, voice sharp. “The plan was always to get the three of you out when he turned eighteen. That was the safest window.”
He gives Mr. Acronym a sharp look.
“Zeke is good at what he does, Bella,” Tex continues. “You don’t understand how important the intel he’s gathering really is to the final goal. Dylan’s death was unexpected and it escalated things. Quickly.”
Something about the way he cut him off, the rehearsed sound in his voice seems off. I narrow my eyes for a second, but neither of them move. They’re not lying. Not exactly. But I can feel it, there is something that they’re also hiding.
We get to the last door on the tour. My room. It’s gorgeous. Big windows. Light wood floors. Soft everything. The kind of bed you throw yourself into face-first and never leave.
But it’s the wall that hits me like a gut punch.
One whole side is a hand-painted mural. Razorback Stadium. Crimson and white roaring through the crowd. The bleachers are packed, the sky overhead a deep navy fading into twilight with stadium lights casting a golden glow over the field.
The Razorback mascot charges across the turf and flags wave high above the scoreboard. The colors bleed together, bold reds, smoky shadows, and that electric shimmer of game night magic. You can almost hear the band, the cheerleaders, the hogs being called.
It doesn’t just look like Arkansas. It feels like home.
“He remembered.” I whisper quietly.
Mr. Acronym just gives me a nod like he already knows.
I stand there staring at that wall as a small smile pulls at my mouth. He remembered. Of all the things he remembered this. My chest tightens and my eyes sting, one tear escaping down my cheek.
He didn’t just give me a room. He gave me a piece of home.
I find Zeke back in the main room, sitting at the long marble table, a half-empty mug in front of him. He looks up when I walk in, and for once he doesn’t joke.
“You good?” he asks, voice low and careful.
I nod, sliding into the chair across from him. “Yeah. Your psycho sniper and Mr. Acronym gave a killer tour. The mural was…” I stop and look out the window for a second. “Thanks, Zeke.”
“You’re welcome,” he says, a flicker behind his eyes. Then he leans forward, arms braced on the table. “You wanted answers,” he says as he shuts his laptop. “So here they are. No filters. No soft landings.”
Then, he just lets it all out. No warm-up. No sugar-coating. Just the whole damn thing, dropped on the table like a live grenade.
There are these Black Books of criminal families. Each one packed with the kind of dirt that could ruin legacies, bury empires, and start wars. Names, money trails, deals, everything the powerful want buried. Zeke has all of them.
But that’s not the point.
“They’re leverage,” he says, calm and sharp. “I’m not trying to run their world. I don’t give a shit about their empires. I’m using them to blow the real one to pieces.”
His eyes stay locked on mine. “The Black Books buy us access. Buy us protection. Buy us time. We squeeze them, and in return? They give us what we need—intel, logistics, clean routes, secure jobs.”
His voice drops, “They give us the worst of the worst, Bells. The ones who don’t even deserve to breathe.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “To find the people like Vince and Carlos. The traffickers. The buyers. The ghosts hiding in the cracks while everyone looks the other way.”
His jaw flexes. “The families that swear they’re not part of it, but they are. Every damn one of them.”
He leans back slightly, eyes still sharp. “I use the Black Book families to hunt worse ones.”
A pause. Just long enough to let it sink in. “As long as they play nice, I don’t release their books. They run small ops for us, intel, location drops, sometimes cleanups. Mostly muscle when we’re pulling kids out of bad situations.”
His voice drops to something more calculated. “I give ‘em just enough pieces of their books back to make them feel like they’re still in control.”
He shrugs, cold. “They’re not.”
From across the room, Mr. Acronym coughs under his breath.
Tex lets out a low laugh. “They think he’s generous.”
“Yeah, well… they think they’re getting their books back.” He leans forward, voice low. “I keep a copy.”
Then he shrugs again, casual as hell. “I’m not a fucking idiot.”
I stare at him. “You’re blackmailing crime families and running an underground war all while failing trig?”
“Pretty much yeah. Except I passed trig,” he says with a devilish grin.
“You’re insane.”
He leans in and winks at me. “Takes one to raise one.”
“It’s not about revenge anymore, Bells. It’s a mission. A war.” He looks at me. “We’re building something. For Dylan. For the kids nobody saved. And the ones no one’s even looking for.”
I sit back trying to take it all in. The books. The families. The money. The quiet war Zeke’s been fighting while I thought he was just keeping us alive.
“And how did they come in?” I ask nodding toward the others.
“O’Malley’s book,” Zeke says. “That’s what flagged me. Some code buried deep in their financial statements.” He nods toward Nate. “Instead of shutting me down, Nate reached out. Started messaging me. Testing me. Then the planning started.”
A quick nod toward Tex. “He was already working with him as his personal guard, sniper, whatever title you want to give it. Together, we built the network.”
Zeke’s eyes meet mine. “And Project Dylan was born.”
Tex smirks. “Not at first. Don’t let him get away with rewriting history. What was it again…?” He tilts his head like he’s scrolling through a mental file. “Operation ZeroTrace. That’s what you tried to name it before Dylan, right? Sounded like a sweaty gamer clan.”
“Wait, you actually named it that?” My eyes widen, and then I start laughing. “Oh my God, please tell me there’s a logo. Did you make merch? PowerPoint slides?”
Tex grins, the bastard. “Bet he had a theme song.”
Zeke scowls, jaw ticking. “I was fourteen.”
“So, what made you pick them?” I ask. “Why those families?”
“Because I did my homework,” he says. “Picked the families with baggage. Ones who lost daughters. Got burned by trafficking ops. People who already hate that world because it cost them.”
He glances toward the skyline. “They agreed to help to earn their books back. On our terms. With conditions.”
His voice hardens. “We don’t touch their other business—drugs, weapons, smuggling. As long as it doesn’t touch kids, we let it slide.”
“You’re serious?”
“They stay in their lane,” he says, voice like stone. “No children getting hurt. No exceptions. The second they cross that line, I fucking bury them.”
I look at Mr. Acronym and wait for the moral outrage. But it isn’t there. Just a clenched jaw and an exhale that feels like it’s been sitting in his lungs for years.
“My sister was taken,” he says quietly. “Seventeen. She was raped. Sold. Made it home but… not really. She killed herself a week before her eighteenth birthday.”
The words drop like a hammer.
“I’m so sorry.”
He nods once, eyes fixed on nothing. “I don’t give a damn about drugs or art heists or blood diamonds. I care about what they do to kids like her. Kids like you.”
I look between them, “So your grand plan was to what? Hand a teenage hacker with a god complex a Glock and call it good?”
Tex raises an eyebrow, not even fazed. “To be fair, we didn’t give him a gun until he turned seventeen.”
I gasp, hand to my chest in full dramatic horror. “Oh. Wow. That makes it so much better.”
Tex huffs a laugh. “Wasn’t exactly the plan. But let’s not pretend your brother isn’t a brilliant little asshole.”
Mr. Acronym adds, “He’s also saved lives. A lot of them. With Zeke, the outcomes outweigh the ethics most days.”
“We can’t save the whole world, Bells. Never could,” Zeke says looking at me, tired but steady. “But we can save the kids they try to erase. The ones nobody’s looking for. And that’s enough for me.”
I let it sit. Let the silence stretch while my brain catches up with my heart. Then another question hits me sideways.
“Why New York?”
Zeke exhales. “Because New York’s a cesspool.”
“That’s not an answer. That’s an insult.”
He half-smiles, just barely. “Millions of people, always moving. Constant turnover. Noise. Chaos. You can disappear here, Bells. You can hunt here.”
“And that makes it perfect for you?” I ask.
Zeke nods. “Exactly. Bigger the crowd, easier it is for monsters to hide.” He glances out the window, voice low. “And easier for us to catch ‘em when they slip.”
There’s something they’re not saying. I file it away. And then I nod, quiet.
“For Dylan,” I say. “I’m in.”