CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Navigating labyrinthine forums where elite hackers exchanged whispers and secrets, he’d just posted a casual mention of an upcoming FBI cybercrime symposium where ShadowCipher’s methods would be analyzed.
The forum itself was an exclusive haunt, accessible only through a series of proxies and authentication protocols beyond the skills of most federal IT specialists.
Its interface was deliberately archaic—black background, green text, no images or formatting.
Old school. Secure. The digital equivalent of a speakeasy with no sign on the door and a complicated knock to gain entry.
Around him, Van’s apartment was just shapes and shadows beyond the sanctum of his workstation.
The empty energy drink cans formed a small army along the edge of his desk.
He’d been hunting through dark corners of the internet for nearly seven hours straight, on top of yesterday’s marathon session.
His eyes burned, but he couldn’t stop now.
Not when Riley’s kid was out there somewhere, in the hands of that psycho Dillard.
Van reached for his last remaining energy drink, the carbonation hissing as he cracked it open. The caffeine would keep him going another hour, maybe two.
The notification sound was subtle—a soft ping that might have been mistaken for ambient noise—but Van’s head snapped up instantly. There, in the thread he’d been monitoring, a new response had appeared beneath his post:
QuantumGhost: ‘Well!’ thought Alice to herself, ‘after such a fall as this, I shall think nothing of tumbling down stairs!’
The Lewis Carroll reference—ShadowCipher’s calling card! This was the second time QuantumGhost had responded with an Alice in Wonderland quote.
Van had found the one he’d been hunting. Or rather, ShadowCipher had allowed themselves to be found. The response had to be perfect—casual enough not to spook his quarry, intriguing enough to keep them engaged. He typed, deleted, typed again, finally settling on:
VoltageVariant: Interesting perspective. I’ve been falling down this particular rabbit hole for weeks. Sometimes I wonder if anyone else understands the depth of it.
The use of “rabbit hole” was deliberate—another Carroll reference, subtle acknowledgment of the game they were playing.
Van held his breath, waiting. These exchanges were delicate.
On the dark web, trust was a currency more precious than bitcoin, and he was a known FBI agent venturing into hostile territory.
A minute passed. Two. Four. Van resisted the urge to add another comment, knowing that patience was crucial now.
Finally, the response appeared:
QuantumGhost: And what exactly are you hoping to find at the bottom of this particular hole, federal man?
Van’s pulse quickened. Direct acknowledgment that QuantumGhost knew who he was. Things might start getting trickier.
VoltageVariant: Answers. Connections.
Another wait. Shorter this time.
QuantumGhost: Why would I—or anyone else—be interested in your little quest for answers and connections?
Van thought fast and hard about what his next tack should be.
VoltageVariant: I’d like to carry on this conversation in private.
QuantumGhost: Right. I’ll open a DM channel.
A moment later, Van Roff received an invitation to his interlocutor’s direct message channel and joined in.
QuantumGhost: Okay, then. What gives, federal man?
The opening Van had been waiting for. He moved rapidly now, committed to the path.
VoltageVariant: This is about a client of yours. L. Dillard.
The moment he hit enter, Van knew he’d made a mistake. The forum’s activity indicator showed QuantumGhost was typing, then abruptly stopped. The connection remained active, but no response came. Thirty seconds stretched into a minute. Two minutes.
“Damn it,” Van hissed, then typed again.
VoltageVariant: I’m not looking to make trouble. This is time sensitive.
He sent the message, watching the status indicators. Delivered. Read. No response. Van decided to get right to the point.
VoltageVariant: This about a kidnapped girl.
This time, there wasn’t even an indication that QuantumGhost had seen the message. The user’s status had changed to offline.
“No, no, no,” Van muttered, fingers flying across the keyboard.
VoltageVariant: ShadowCipher—L. Dillard has a federal agent’s daughter. Whatever he’s paying you, this isn’t worth the heat that’s coming. This is about a kid’s life.
He hit enter, then leaned back in his chair, the plastic creaking beneath his weight. The message went live, floating in digital space. Van waited, refreshing the page every few minutes, checking other channels where QuantumGhost might appear. Nothing.
After twenty minutes of silence, Van slammed his hand against the desk, sending an empty can clattering to the floor.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he berated himself, rubbing his tired eyes. Of course a known FBI man mentioning Dillard by name would spook his contact. ShadowCipher hadn’t survived this long in the digital underground by engaging with feds who directly named clients.
He stared at the screen, the green text blurring before his exhausted eyes. Somewhere out there, Jilly was in the hands of a psychopath. Riley and Bill were counting on him to deliver something—anything—that might help. And he’d just watched his best lead vanish in an instant of poor judgment.
*
The phone’s harsh ring tore through Riley’s drugged sleep, dragging her from unconsciousness.
Her eyes snapped open to darkness, her mind struggling to surface through the thick fog of the sedative.
For a single, disorienting moment, she couldn’t remember where she was, why her limbs felt so leaden, or why a call in the in the dead of night filled her with inexplicable dread.
Then reality crashed back: Jilly was gone. Leo had her.
Riley reached for her phone, its screen painfully bright in the darkened bedroom.
Through blurred vision, she registered an incoming video call—number blocked.
Her thumb hovered over the screen for a fraction of a second before she accepted, instinct overriding caution.
As the call connected, she became aware of the emptiness beside her.
The mattress where Bill should have been sleeping was cold, the sheets undisturbed.
“Bill?” she called out, but her voice fell flat in the silent room. No response.
Her attention snapped back to the phone as the video feed stabilized. Leo Dillard’s face filled the screen, his features cast in sharp relief against darkness behind him. The sight of him sent a jolt of adrenaline through her system, burning away the remnants of pharmaceutical fog.
“Good evening, Riley,” he said, his voice pleasant, as if they were colleagues catching up after hours. “Or should I say good morning? I hope I didn’t wake you.”
Riley sat upright, her back against the headboard, forcing her features into a neutral expression. “Where is she, Leo? Where’s Jilly?”
Leo’s smile widened slightly. “Straight to business. I’ve always admired that about you.
” He adjusted the camera angle, revealing more of his face.
“Before we get to that, I should mention that this call is untraceable. Your tech friends—what was his name? Mathers?—won’t be able to monitor it or track its origin. I’ve made sure of that.”
Riley fought to keep her voice steady. “What do you want?”
“To talk. To connect.” Leo cocked his head slightly. “Isn’t it ironic that I’m actually not far from where you’re sitting right now? In geographic terms, we’re practically neighbors. But for all the good that knowledge does you, I might as well be on the other side of the continent.”
The implication that he was nearby cold fear through Riley’s body, but she refused to let it show.
Instead, she scanned what little she could see behind him—nothing but blackness.
Either he was in a completely dark room or, more likely, using a green screen to block out any details that might identify his location.
“Tell me, Riley,” Leo continued, his tone conversational, “do you know where Bill is right now?”
She glanced again at the empty space beside her, at the undisturbed pillow.
“What have you done?” The words came out barely above a whisper.
Leo’s expression remained pleasantly neutral. “Why don’t you check? Go ahead. I’ll wait.”
Riley moved with the speed of desperation, throwing back the covers and rushing from the bedroom, phone still clutched in her hand. “Bill?” she called, louder now, her bare feet silent on the carpeted hallway. “Bill!”
She checked Jilly’s room first—empty—then thundered down the stairs, heart hammering against her ribs. The living room was dark and still. The dining room, the family room and back porch all unoccupied, the kitchen empty of life.
“Looking a bit frantic there, Riley,” Leo observed from the screen, his voice containing a note of satisfaction that made her skin crawl. “What about his car?”
Riley yanked the front door open and stared out at the parking lot. The streetlights revealed an empty space where Bill’s car should have been. But the patrol car guarding them was still out there.
Riley muted the phone, scrambled down the stairs, still in her pajamas. One of the officers, eyes wide with surprise, opened his car door.
“Where’s Bill?” she demanded.
The officer shook his head. “Ma’am, he left about an hour ago. Said he’d be back shortly.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“Just that he had something to take care of. He sounded stressed, but we didn’t think—”
Riley didn’t wait for him to finish. She turned and sprinted back into the house, slamming the door behind her. She rushed into the kitchen and unmuted the phone and stared at Leo’s face again.
“He’s gone,” she said.
“Yes, he is. But don’t worry,” Leo said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I’ve found him.”
The camera angle shifted abruptly. The view wobbled momentarily before settling on a new scene—still against sheer darkness, but now showing a figure standing on what appeared to be a small stool.
A man, hands bound behind his back, a bag over his head, a noose hanging loosely around his neck.
Even without seeing his face, Riley recognized Bill’s build, the set of his shoulders now slumped in resignation.
“No,” Riley breathed, her legs nearly giving way beneath her.
“A well-placed taser can subdue even the most determined FBI agent,” Leo said, his voice coming from off-camera now. “And of course, he was already so tired.”
The camera panned slowly around Bill’s figure, revealing the precariousness of his position. The stool beneath his feet was short, the noose adjusted just high enough that if the stool were removed, Bill would have to stand on tiptoes to avoid strangulation.
“As you can see,” Leo continued, almost clinically. “He wouldn’t be able to stand very long. Not after being tased and drugged.”
“What do you want?” she asked again, fighting to keep her voice from cracking.
“Patience, Riley,” Leo chided. “I’m not finished with the tour yet.”
The camera swung away from Bill, moving through the darkness until it settled on another figure—smaller, slumped in a chair.
A figure Riley recognized instantly despite the bag over her head.
Jilly. Her daughter was bound to the chair, hands secured behind her, feet tied to the legs.
A soft groan emanated from beneath the hood.
“She’s been quite resilient,” Leo remarked, stepping into the frame beside Jilly. In his free hand, he held a knife—the same type of knife, Riley realized with horror, that he had used on Susan Martinez. “Much stronger than I expected. The streets taught her well.”
Riley’s entire body went cold. “Let them go, Leo. This is between you and me.”
“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong,” Leo said, using the flat of the blade to lift Jilly’s hooded chin. “This is about all of us now. About the choices we make. About the consequences of those choices.”
He moved away from Jilly, the camera following him as he approached Bill again. “You’ve made so many choices in your career, Riley. Decided who lived and who died. Officer Chen. Susan Martinez.” He reached out, gently adjusting the noose around Bill’s neck. “Now I’m giving you another choice.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s quite simple,” Leo said, his voice eerily calm.
“You can save one of them. Only one.” He gestured toward Jilly with the knife.
“If you choose to save your daughter, I’ll let her go.
I’ll leave her somewhere she can be found.
But you’ll seal Bill’s fate. I’ll hang around long enough to watch him die, and then I’ll be a ghost.”
The camera panned back to Jilly, lingering on her bound form.
“Or,” Leo continued, “you can choose to save Bill. I’ll let him go. But Jilly,” he held up the knife. “Jilly will suffer the same fate as Susan Martinez. And again, I’ll become a ghost.”
Riley struggled to breathe. “You’re insane,” she whispered.
“No,” Leo corrected her. “I’m curious. I want to see what you’ll do when forced to choose between the man you love and the child you’ve worked so hard to save. The devoted partner versus the desperate mother.”
He turned the camera back to his face, his expression calm, almost contemplative. “So, Riley. Who lives? Bill or Jilly? You need to choose right now.”
Riley’s mind spun wildly, searching for options, for a way out of the impossible choice. There had to be another way, something she was missing.
“I can’t—” she began, but Leo cut her off.
“You can, and you will,” he said, his voice hardening for the first time. “Choose now, or I kill them both.”
Riley knew that he meant it. This was his plan—forcing her to make an unthinkable decision, watching her break under its weight.
“Choose, Riley,” Leo repeated, his voice soft again, almost hypnotic. “Who lives? Who dies? The clock is ticking.”