Chapter 3 - JONAH’S BLOOD
Jonah Willis looked younger than twenty-one.
That was the first thing I noticed.
Not the bruising.
Not the oxygen.
Not the bandage wrapped beneath his ribs.
His face.
Too young.
Faith stopped in the hospital doorway.
Her entire body went still.
Then she crossed the room.
“Jonah.”
His eyes opened.
Slowly.
He saw her.
Then me.
Panic.
Actual panic.
He tried to sit up.
“Faith.”
“Don’t.”
“You brought him.”
“I came with her,” I said.
Jonah stared.
His hand moved weakly toward the call button.
Faith caught his wrist.
“Stop.”
“You don’t know.”
“I know enough.”
“No.”
His eyes filled.
“You need to leave.”
Faith shook her head.
“Not again.”
Jonah looked at me.
“Tell her.”
“Tell her what?”
“To go.”
“No.”
He stared.
“You’re Dominic Carter.”
“So I am told.”
“You don’t understand.”
“That is becoming repetitive.”
Faith gave me a look.
I stopped.
Federal agents waited outside.
Not mine.
Not Pike.
That mattered.
Jonah saw them.
His fear changed.
“Who are they?”
“Public corruption task force.”
He stared at Faith.
“What did you do?”
“She spoke.”
“I told you not to.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Faith’s face broke.
“Because somebody stabbed you.”
Jonah looked away.
For the first time, I saw guilt.
Not fear.
Guilt.
“Who?” I asked.
No answer.
“Jonah.”
Faith touched his hand.
“Please.”
He closed his eyes.
“Rico Velez.”
Carmine, standing near the door, looked at me.
South River.
“Ordered by?”
Jonah shook his head.
“Don’t know.”
“Then how do you know Rico?”
“He used to work Mason Freight.”
Interesting.
“Security?”
“Loading crew.”
“Who supervised him?”
Jonah swallowed.
“Derek Shaw.”
I knew that name.
Former logistics director.
Now vice president of Carter Foundation facilities.
The same rehabilitation center listed on the gun manifest.
My nonprofit again.
I felt cold.
“Derek works for me.”
Jonah looked at me.
“That’s why they’re winning.”
Faith flinched.
The sentence landed.
I had built an empire.
Apparently other people had built tunnels through it.
“Tell me everything,” I said.
Jonah laughed weakly.
“You’ll kill me.”
“No.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Yes.”
He looked at Faith.
She nodded.
“He called feds.”
Jonah stared.
“You?”
I was beginning to find this insulting.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I am tired of discovering my people are the least trustworthy part of the room.”
Carmine cleared his throat.
“Not all your people.”
“Your performance review is next month.”
Jonah almost smiled despite the pain.
Good.
Fear loosened.
He looked at Faith.
“I found the warehouse because of Dad.”
“What?”
“His old toolbox.”
Faith frowned.
“You took that?”
“After the funeral.”
“You said you sold it.”
“I lied.”
“Obviously.”
He breathed carefully.
“Inside one drawer there was a key card.”
“C-17?”
“Yes.”
Faith closed her eyes.
“So you went.”
“I wanted to know why Dad kept checking that place before he died.”
“How often?”
“Every month.”
My attention sharpened.
“Your father was watching Mason Freight for years.”
“Yes.”
“Did he tell you?”
“No.”
“What did you find?”
“Nothing at first. Empty warehouse. Dust.”
“Then?”
“Six months ago, trucks started coming.”
“The weapons.”
“Yes.”
“How many shipments?”
“Five I saw.”
“Destination?”
“Different Carter properties.”
My jaw tightened.
“Which?”
“Rehab center. Two clubs. A storage building near the docks.”
Carmine cursed.
Every location had legitimate traffic.
Perfect cover.
“Who signed transfers?”
“Derek Shaw.”
“What about the attack on me?”
Jonah looked at me.
“I saw your route plan.”
Silence.
“Where?”
“Office computer in C-17.”
“That route was encrypted.”
“Printed.”
Carmine stiffened.
Only five people received hard copies.
Me.
Carmine.
Derek.
My driver.
And my chief strategist, Vincent Morello.
Vincent had been beside me for fourteen years.
He was in the second SUV the night of the attack.
Uninjured.
My stomach tightened.
“Who printed it?”
Jonah shook his head.
“No name.”
“Timestamp?”
“Night before.”
“What else?”
“List of vehicles.”
“How did you know it was my convoy?”
“License numbers.”
Carmine looked at me.
My driver died in the attack.
Two guards died.
I woke without working legs.
Jonah continued.
“I took pictures.”
“Where?”
“My phone.”
“Police seized it?”
“Pike.”
Of course.
“Did you back them up?”
A tiny smile.
“Dad taught me not to trust one copy.”
Faith started crying.
“Where?”
Jonah looked at her.
“You remember Mom’s recipe email?”
Faith froze.
“What?”
“The old account.”
Her face changed.
“My mother’s email still works?”
“Yes.”
“You have the password?”
“Dad did.”
“What is in it?”
“Drafts.”
Old trick.
Emails never sent.
Files stored in draft folder to avoid transmission.
Carmine nodded.
“Smart.”
Jonah looked at me.
“Photos. Video. Shipment lists.”
“Can you access it?”
“Yes.”
“From here?”
He looked at the federal agents outside.
“Maybe.”
Faith squeezed his hand.
“Do it.”
Jonah hesitated.
“What?”
He looked at me.
“There’s one file I never opened.”
“Why?”
“Dad marked it for Faith only.”
She stopped.
“When?”
“Three years ago.”
Before Caleb’s death.
Faith’s father had left a message only for her.
Her face went pale.
“Open it.”
Jonah shook his head.
“Not here.”
Faith’s voice sharpened.
“Jonah.”
“He wrote if you ever found out about Mom, you should watch alone.”
Her eyes filled.
“Too late for alone.”
He looked at me.
I understood.
“This is not mine.”
Faith looked at me.
I continued.
“You decide.”
That surprised her.
Good.
She nodded.
“Later.”
Federal Agent Maya Chen entered.
Mid-forties.
Dark suit.
Zero interest in my reputation.
“Mr. Willis, we need permission to preserve the account.”
Jonah looked at Faith.
She nodded.
He gave the credentials.
Chen turned to me.
“Mr. Carter, you need to understand something.”
“I frequently do not enjoy sentences that begin that way.”
“This investigation may reach your own organization.”
“I know.”
“You may be exposed.”
“I know.”
“You are not receiving immunity by cooperating today.”
“I did not ask.”
She studied me.
“Good.”
Then her phone buzzed.
She read.
Looked at Jonah.
Then me.
“We found the draft folder.”
“How much?”
“Forty-six files.”
“Open the route plan.”
She did.
The photograph appeared on a secured tablet.
My convoy route.
Printed.
At the bottom, beneath internal distribution codes, one handwritten note.
CHANGE OVERPASS WINDOW TO 22:10.
Carmine leaned closer.
“That was exactly when we entered the ramp.”
Yes.
The attack started at 10:10 p.m.
Another photograph showed a whiteboard.
Names.
Mine.
Drivers.
Security.
Then one line:
D.C. SURVIVES IF CHAIR.
I stared.
Faith whispered, “What does that mean?”
Carmine went pale.
I knew.
My attackers had not intended to kill me.
They intended the injury.
The wheelchair.
Exactly.
D.C. survives if chair.
“They wanted me alive,” I said.
Jonah looked sick.
“Why?”
I thought about six months of isolation.
Rage.
Caretakers quitting.
My organization running through intermediaries while I hid inside the mansion.
Power weakened without removing the figurehead.
Someone wanted Dominic Carter alive enough to keep the empire stable and damaged enough not to control it.
“Because dead men create wars,” Carmine said.
“Broken men create vacancies.”
Faith looked at me.
I hated how accurate it was.
Chen opened the next image.
A payment sheet.
Derek Shaw.
Roland Pike.
Rico Velez.
Then initials.
V.M.
Carmine stopped breathing.
Vincent Morello.
My strategist.
My second.
My closest friend since I was eighteen.
“No,” Carmine said.
I said nothing.
Faith watched my face.
“Who?”
I looked at her.
“The man running half my organization while I sit in this chair.”
Jonah whispered:
“Then he won.”
I turned toward the window.
Chicago skyline beyond hospital glass.
For six months, Vincent had told me to rest.
To focus on rehabilitation.
To let him handle everything.
He had brought doctors.
Therapists.
Caretakers.
Some of the same people I chased away.
He had always looked concerned.
Never pitying.
I trusted him.
More than almost anyone.
Faith said quietly:
“You don’t know yet.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“Initials are not proof.”
That was my line.
Or should have been.
She was giving it back.
“V.M.”
“Yes.”
“Could be anyone.”
“Not many.”
“No.”
“But enough that you do not get to sentence someone in a hospital room.”
She was right.
Again.
I hated it.
Agent Chen nodded.
“She is correct.”
I stared at both of them.
“This is becoming unbearable.”
Faith almost smiled.
Then Jonah coughed hard.
Pain hit him.
The monitor alarmed.
Nurses rushed in.
We were pushed out.
Faith stood in the hallway shaking.
I wheeled closer.
Not touching.
“Do you want to see your father’s file?”
She looked at me.
“No.”
Then:
“Yes.”
I waited.
She wiped her face.
“But not here.”
“Where?”
She looked toward the elevator.
“Your house.”
That surprised me.
“You trust it?”
“No.”
She looked at me.
“I trust Mrs. Gable.”
Interesting.
“And me?”
Faith stared.
“For this?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
Something inside my chest moved.
Not pride.
Something more dangerous.
Responsibility.
We returned to the mansion at 6:40.
Vincent Morello was waiting in my library.
He stood when I entered.
Tall.
Dark suit.
Silver tie.
Same calm face I had seen through fifteen years of blood, business, funerals, and victory.
“Dominic.”
His eyes shifted to Faith.
Then Carmine.
Then the federal agent behind us.
His expression changed.
Only slightly.
“Busy day?”
I held his gaze.
“Extremely.”
He smiled faintly.
“What happened?”
I looked at the man who might have ordered me crippled.
Then I looked at Faith.
She had taught me something painful.
Do not confuse suspicion with proof.
“Sit,” I said.
Vincent sat.
I positioned my wheelchair across from him.
“Tell me where you were the night I got shot.”
May you like
His smile disappeared.
And for the first time in fifteen years, Vincent Morello looked afraid of me.
