Chapter 3 - The Shadow Over the Market
Outside, the golden hour was waning into a deep, velvety dusk. The streetlamps along the perimeter of the St. Jude Market flickered to life, casting long pool of amber light across the uneven cobblestones.
At the upper window of the Grand Hotel's second-floor tea room, Marcus Sterling adjusted the focus on his binoculars.
Sterling was forty-two, possessed a razor-sharp jawline, and wore a bespoke charcoal suit that cost more than Martha Gable made in three years. He took a slow sip of hot black tea from a porcelain cup, his grey eyes locked onto the small food kiosk near the flower vendor.
"The girl hasn't moved," Sterling spoke into a small microphone pinned to his lapel. "The vagrant left ten minutes ago heading east toward the river. Did team two intercept him?"
"Team two lost visual in the alley behind the locksmith shop, sir," a crackling voice replied over his radio. "There's no sign of the drive. He might have dropped it in a sewer."
Sterling scowled, setting his tea cup down with a sharp clink. "He didn't drop it in a sewer. Vance is an auditor. Auditors don't destroy evidence; they hide it in plain sight. Check the old woman's stall again. Search her flour sacks. Search her vegetable crates. If Vance passed that drive to her before he ran, I want it in my hand before the sun sets."
"Sir, there are still civilians in the square. Security guards are—"
"I don't give a damn about security guards," Sterling hissed, his eyes narrowing as he stared through the glass. "The evidence on that drive connects my firm to three state senators and forty million dollars in laundered cartel money. If that drive reaches the US Attorney, we aren't just going to prison—we're going to a execution chamber. Clear the square if you have to."
Down in the market square, Martha Gable was beginning to pack away her wooden display boards. Her hands were stiff from the night air, her joints aching with the familiar pain of arthritis. The square was emptying; vendors were covering their fruit crates with heavy canvas tarps, and the laughter of evening shoppers was fading into the quiet rustle of blowing autumn leaves.
Two tall men in heavy dark overcoats stepped out from the shadows near the brick archway. They didn't look like shoppers. They moved with a slow, predatory rhythm, their hands tucked deep into their pockets, their eyes fixed on Martha's small wooden kiosk.
Martha didn't see them at first. She was reaching for her worn leather purse under the counter, counting the day's meager earnings—thirty-four dollars and fifty cents. Not even enough to pay the interest on the bank's daily default penalty.
"Mrs. Gable?" one of the men called out, his voice flat, heavy, and devoid of warmth.
Martha startled, looking up. "Oh! I'm sorry, gentlemen, the kitchen is closed for the evening. I'm all out of hot soup."
The taller man stepped up to the counter, his broad shoulders blocking the amber light from the streetlamp behind him. He reached out and forcefully grabbed the corner of her wooden counter, his knuckles turning white.
"We aren't here for soup, old woman," he growled low. "Where did the vagrant put the small silver box?"
Martha blinked, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "The... the young man in the grey coat? He didn't give me any box. He was just hungry... I gave him some bread..."
The second man stepped around the side of the stall, unlatching the low wooden door that led into her small preparation area. "Search the flour bins. Break the floorboards if you have to."
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"Wait! You can't be back here!" Martha cried out, her voice trembling as she backed away toward the rear wall, clutching her purse to her chest. "This is private property! Help! Is anyone—"
The tall man reached into his coat, pulling out a heavy, dark iron tool with a curved steel hook. "Keep your mouth shut if you want to keep breathing, old lady."
