Chapter 4
CHAPTER
FOUR
Kendall
I catch the breach in my system and scrub my tracks fast, making sure nothing ties me to Booker or the Kings.
Then I see something that makes me seethe.
Jerome's forcing Branson back to the terminal.
I send a fast, encrypted warning telling him to stop.
It's on him now. He either stops or he walks away from the rescue plan I've built to get his family out of Jerome's grip.
Severing the link to Booker feels like a fresh betrayal, yet I can’t let Jerome discover anything else.
Every keystroke sends fire through my ribs, a reminder of the savage beating I took earlier.
Booker’s face haunts me. I can’t shake the look of shock and fury he wore when he saw my bruises.
I didn’t want to use him, but Branson is looming over the console and Jerome is breathing down my neck.
The risk of a mistake is just too massive.
If Jerome catches even a whisper of what we’re planning, Kolter dies.
I’ve got to stay detached. I need to guide the Kings through the raid while they’re tied up in West Texas.
The plan is that after the raid finds nothing and they get back from laying their friend to rest, they’ll help me infiltrate Jerome’s den of sin and clear the place, and I’ll sneak in the back, scoop up my boy, and disappear.
Branson has one chance to walk away and save his family, or we’re all going down in flames.
Branson confirms he's with me, and the relief hits so hard I almost buckle.
We trade encrypted messages until we've got a solid alliance.
He's going to feed Jerome fake location data so the Kings stay off the grid, ghosts on the road.
That simple trick buys them the protection they need to stay hidden while they travel.
We spend hours mapping every vulnerability in the perimeter defenses.
We flag every camera blind spot and pin down the guard rotations.
By the time we're done, I've got a roadmap to burn this whole operation to the ground the second the Kings’ strike.
I won’t be sitting at my monitor to watch it all unfold, even though I wish I could.
I simply can’t. Every instinct screams at me to stay glued to the screen, to track the flickering data packets and verify that the digital smoke screens I've constructed hold up under scrutiny. But remaining here is a luxury I don’t possess.
Getting to Kolter is my priority before Jerome figures out that the breach was my doing.
Every passing second increases the risk that my digital signatures will be unmasked.
Once Jerome realizes the infiltration originated from my console, the window to rescue my boy will slam shut forever.
I have to move now, relying entirely on the precision of the architecture I've set in motion while I physically cross into the danger zone.
Before shutting down my monitor and plunging the room into darkness, I take a final few seconds to send a quick apology to Booker.
My fingers fly across the keys as I draft a hasty explanation, summarizing in a brief, Cliff’s Notes fashion the urgent reasons why I had to abruptly close out our chat session without properly saying goodbye or explaining the looming danger I found myself in.
I need him to know that severing our link wasn't a betrayal, but a desperate move to keep Jerome from uncovering our plan and putting Kolter's life in immediate jeopardy.
My message outlines the trap Branson and I are navigating, and how Branson is feeding Jerome fake location data to keep the Kings hidden as they travel to and from West Texas.
Without waiting for a reply, I log off, knowing that any digital footprint left behind could cost us everything.
I crawl my way out of my chair and collapse on the floor in front of my bed.
Every movement sends a blinding wave of fire through my ribs.
The agony is too severe for me to pull myself up and onto the bed, leaving me paralyzed in the dark, entirely dependent on the digital architecture I've set in motion to protect the people I love and care about.
An absolute, welcoming darkness consumes me whole as my eyes finally flutter close against the cold room. The sheer, overwhelming velocity of both exhaustion and relief encases me like a ladened down warm blanket, pressing down on my bruised limbs and giving me a false sense of safety.
"Wake up, bitch!" a harsh voice barks, right before a sudden kick explodes against my ribs, sending a new wave of agony through my already battered body.
“Oomph,” I cry out as I roll over and peer up at Jerome as he looks down at me with a sneer on his face.
“Patrick’s mother is appearing before the judge this morning,” he barks. Then he continues, issuing instructions. “Establish a connection with the syndicate immediately. I want a full breakdown of their strategy regarding the Dragons.”
Nodding my head to placate him, I swallow the groan that threatens to escape my lips and drag my battered body off the cold floor.
I slowly lift myself up onto my hands and knees, each breath sending a sharp wave of agony through my cracked ribs as I begin crawling my way across the room over to my console.
I force my expression to remain blank under his watchful glare, but inside, a secret smile dances on my lips.
Little does he know, the very network he is demanding I access has already been turned against him.
I've been using this station to send the syndicate anonymous tips and scrambled data detailing the full extent of Jerome and his evil scheming.
To guarantee that absolutely nothing points back to me or this terminal, I routed the masked data streams through a chaotic digital maze, bouncing them off numerous far-off signal towers throughout the region.
My firewall is entirely bulletproof, featuring a highly sophisticated software design I built from scratch.
I intend to give it to Booker as soon as possible so he can hand it off to Nerd, the tech expert for the West Texas crew, to lock down their communications.
Suddenly, a surge of panic strikes me—I can't recall if I explicitly warned them that Branson had been ordered to hack their system as well, but their protection is absolutely vital.
Anyone with ties to the Kings' East Texas branch faces intense scrutiny. I have shielded them as effectively as I could, but facing Branson meant nothing was ever certain. Yet now that he has joined us and aligned with the strategy I’ve set in motion, we will be a formidable, unstoppable powerhouse.
“Quit dragging your feet, Kendall. Otherwise, the thrashing you received yesterday will seem like a walk in the park,” Jerome snarls.
Dragging my body up, I grasp the edge of the desk and finally reach my feet.
I slide into the chair to boot up the computer.
Knowing Jerome is completely clueless about how computers work, I open an alternate window alongside the syndicate connection.
I pull Booker into the session so he can watch in silence.
It is crucial for me to demonstrate that my plea for assistance was neither a bid for pity nor a scheme to damage his club.
I must show him that I am not playing games, and that he truly can trust me.
I shift to the side as the video link goes live, but Jerome still shoots me a venomous look.
He rips me out of the seat and throws me back, slamming me into the wall.
Sliding down the surface, I pull myself into a tight ball.
I am completely exhausted from being his personal punching bag.
Still, I'm much luckier than most of the women he captured.
Once he realized my technical skills and I delivered a male heir, he ceased with his vile, physical abuse.
Only halfway paying attention to the conversation taking place, my mind wanders to my son like it always does.
I picture Kolter trapped in whatever room Jerome is keeping him hidden in, completely cut off from me while this nightmare plays out around us.
Every word spoken on the syndicate call is nothing but background noise to the frantic pounding of my heart.
I need the Kings to move fast, to launch the raid so Branson and I can execute the final steps of this breakout strategy.
I focus on the cold wall pressing against my back, letting the pain in my ribs anchor me while my mind maps out the escape route, counting down the hours until I can finally scoop up my boy and disappear forever.
My mind is beginning to feel like a broken record, repeating my fears and thoughts as I conjure up all the ways this plan can either go wrong or right.
By the time their discussion concludes, I have fixed a mask of composure on my face, completely unaware of how much time has slipped by.
As Jerome paces across the floor, muttering under his breath, I observe him with intense reluctance.
The gears in his head are spinning at a frantic, dizzying pace, fueled by a mind that is both disordered and deeply malicious.
Who would ever choose to witness the thoughts inside a place like that?
Consequently, I refrain from questioning him, suppressing both my curiosity and my desire to uncover whatever schemes he is currently devising.
“Did you establish the secure line into the jailhouse as instructed?” he demands, coupling the question with a sudden directive. “Set up round-the-clock surveillance monitoring both the interior and exterior of that courtroom.”
“The inside of the courthouse doesn’t have a monitoring system, Jerome,” I say, internally rolling my eyes at him.
“Why the fuck not?” he asks, his tone seething.
I try to come up with an excuse that he’ll buy.
For some reason, my gut tells me he shouldn’t know what happens inside that room.
“Privacy act. The legal protocols for those specific courtrooms are incredibly strict, Jerome. They legally bar any internal broadcast or recording devices from operating during active proceedings to protect sensitive information. If I attempt to force a digital tap into an offline room like that, it will trigger an immediate structural alarm at the central hub, and the local marshals will lock down the network before we can gather a single byte of data.”
“Are you bullshitting me, Kendall? This feels like hogwash and you know I can’t stand to be deceived!”
I meet his gaze and force my expression to remain unreadable.
My heart hammers against my ribs, but I hold his stare, refusing to look away even when his patience begins to fray.
I know the thin ice I am walking on. He looms over me, a dark shadow of unpredictable rage, and I calculate the distance to the door while I search his face for a sign that he buys my excuse.
“I wouldn't lie to you, Jerome,” I say, keeping my voice level despite the cold sweat prickling at my neck. “I know exactly what happens when I do.”
“Yeah you do,” he gloats, a satisfied gleam in his eyes.
He leans in closer, his heavy shadow completely eclipsing the dim light of the room, as if savoring the total submission he believes he has extracted from me.
The absolute certainty of his control over me radiates from him in waves, feeding a bloated ego that thrives entirely on fear and domination.
He takes a slow, deliberate step back, crossing his arms over his chest while his cruel sneer relaxes into a grin of pure triumph.
For a man who rules his empire with iron fists and savage violence, this psychological victory is a drug he can’t resist. He genuinely believes he has broken my spirit, completely convinced that the brutal thrashing from yesterday has finally driven out any remaining thoughts of rebellion or deception from my mind.
Watching him bask in this false sense of security makes the frantic, terrified pounding of my heart steady into something resembling focus.
Let him gloat, and let him believe he has won this minor battle.
Every second he spends wallowing in his own arrogance is another second he isn't looking closer at the digital architecture I have quietly spun right beneath his nose, waiting to tear his world apart.
“Find a way to get me what I want,” he commands, turning around on the heels of his feet and marching out of my room, slamming and locking the door behind him.
It’s been a long time since he’s used the deadbolt on the other side to keep me hostage, but I know until I find a way to satisfy his curiosity, I’ll be in here for the long haul.
I scramble back to the terminal the second the crisp click of the deadbolt fades into silence.
Alone again, I fly across the keys to reach Branson.
He's online in an instant. He's a vital lifeline amidst this swirling chaos. I type out Jerome’s demand for the courtroom feed and wait as the cursor blinks back at me.
There's no room for mistakes in this ploy.
We pull up a cache of audio files, snatching voice snippets from public hearings, speeches, and depositions.
It feels like I'm piecing together a forgery, crafting a synthetic reality where the judge hands down verdicts that never happen.
We layer the audio to conceal our edits.
We blend the fabricated dialogue with the natural static of the feed.
It's a delicate house of cards. If Jerome takes a brief moment to verify the records against the official docket or scrutinize the digital signatures, the entire facade will crumble.
I hold my breath as I listen to the hiss of the feed through my headphones and pray he buys the lie long enough for us to make our move.