Chapter 5 - The Betrayal Within the Newsroom
The sound of the tactical operator’s fist slamming against the driver’s side window echoed like a gunshot inside the confined space of the Subaru.
"We need to move—now!" Marcus yelled, his usual calm demeanor entirely shattered as he threw the car into reverse and slammed his foot down on the gas pedal.
The tires shrieked against the wet gravel, spitting mud and stones into the air as the car lurched backward, narrowly missing the front bumper of the blockade SUV.
"Hold on!" Marcus shouted, cutting the steering wheel hard to the left as a heavy dull thud reverberated through the metal frame of our car.
Someone had fired a non-lethal beanbag round or struck the rear quarter panel with a crowbar, denting the metal with a sickening crunch.
Marcus didn't hesitate; he shifted back into drive, flooring the accelerator and smashing straight through a rotting wooden perimeter fence at the edge of the industrial lot.
Wood splinters flew everywhere like toothpicks as the Subaru burst out onto the secondary highway, fishtailing wildly on the slick asphalt before stabilizing.
In the rearview mirror, I watched the two black SUVs roar out of the parking lot, their high beams cutting through the torrential rain as they gave chase, closing the distance between us with terrifying speed.
"They're gaining on us!" I screamed, gripping the edges of the dashboard as the engine whined at maximum RPMs.
"We're heading toward the city center underground parking structure," Marcus shouted over the roar of the wind and rain. "If we can lose them in the labyrinth levels beneath the financial district, we can ditch the car and escape on foot through the metro tunnels."
The rain hammered against the windshield so hard the wipers could barely keep up, turning the highway into a smeared watercolor painting of red tail lights and blinding headlights.
Sirens wailed in the distance—whether police responding to our erratic driving or corporate security forces coordinating our interception, I couldn't tell.
We were completely isolated, hunted by a multi-billion-dollar empire that could bend city infrastructure and law enforcement to its will with a single phone call.
Twenty minutes later, Marcus executed a reckless, high-speed drift off the highway ramp, plunging the Subaru down the concrete ramp of the subterranean parking garage beneath the Chicago Chronicle headquarters building.
The tires screeched loudly against the polished concrete floor as we spiraled downward, level by level, descending into the dark, echoing depths of the structure.
Marcus cut the headlights entirely, steering the car by memory through the deserted rows of parked vehicles until he jammed the gear shift into park in a shadowy corner spot near the old maintenance elevators.
"Out, out, out!" Marcus urged, throwing open his door and reaching across the console to grab the manila envelope and the encrypted tablet.
We scrambled out of the car, our footsteps splashing in puddles as we sprinted toward the freight elevator bank.
Marcus swiped his master press badge against the security scanner.
The heavy metal doors slid open with a metallic ding, and we tumbled inside.
Marcus smashed the button for the 14th floor—the secure archival records department—hoping to find a secure phone line or an old emergency exit route known only to senior staff.
The elevator ascended smoothly, the digital floor numbers ticking upward: 8, 9, 10, 11...
My chest heaved as I tried to catch my breath, my hands trembling violently against the steel handrail of the car.
"Marcus... how did they track us so fast?" I asked, my voice laced with a sudden, nagging suspicion that had been festering in the back of my mind since our escape from the warehouse. "You said the beacon was on the flash drive. But how did they know which warehouse we were heading to before we even parked?"
Marcus stopped pressing buttons, his hand freezing inches from the control panel.
He didn't look at me immediately.
Instead, his gaze remained fixed on the glowing digital display above the door, which had just flashed the number 13.
"Marcus?" I repeated, taking an involuntary step back toward the corner of the elevator car.
He finally turned his head to look at me, and the expression on his face made my blood run colder than any threat from Richard Vance ever could.
It wasn't fear.
It was cold, calculated resignation.
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"I didn't lead them to the warehouse, Claire," Marcus said softly, his voice devoid of emotion. "They were already tracking my personal vehicle's transponder. Because I'm the one who notified Richard Vance’s security division thirty minutes after you called me."
The elevator dinged softly, arriving at the 14th floor.
