Chapter 3 - The Call in the Shadows
I pulled my cracked iPhone from my scrub pocket with trembling fingers, unlocking the screen and scrolling to Tyler’s contact. The time was 3:28 AM. Tyler was a heavy sleeper; usually, it took four calls to wake him if he had an early shift at the rail depot.
I pressed call and put the phone on the wooden nightstand between us.
The line rang once. Twice. Three times.
On the fourth ring, a sharp click sounded through the speaker. But it wasn't Tyler’s groggy voice that answered.
"Nora?" a panicked, breathless whisper came through the line. "Nora, don't go home. Oh God, Nora, please tell me you're still at your hospital job."
My stomach dropped straight through the floor. "Tyler? What's going on? Where are you?"
"They were waiting outside my apartment," Tyler sobbed, his voice cracking with sheer terror. I could hear the distant roar of expressway traffic and the harsh sound of him running on gravel. "Two guys in black sedans. They kicked down the front door. They had suppressed handguns, Nora! I climbed out the fire escape through Mrs. Gable’s window! They were looking for my laptop and my passport!"
Desmond’s eyes narrowed into slits. He leaned over the nightstand, speaking directly into the microphone with chilling authority. "Who sent them, kid?"
A dead silence fell over the line, broken only by Tyler’s ragged wheezing. "Who... who is that? Nora, who is on the phone with you?"
"Answer the question, Tyler," I pleaded, grabbing the phone with both hands. "You're in danger. The man you're talking to can protect you, but you have to tell him the truth right now. Did you touch money from an offshore account?"
"I didn't steal it!" Tyler cried hysterically. "My supervisor at the dock, Mr. Callahan... he told me it was an expedited customs clearing fee for an import crate from Montreal! He gave me five thousand cash to log the clearance under my employee portal! He said it was standard freight protocol! I swear to God, Nora, I didn't know what was inside that crate!"
Desmond tilted his head back, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles jumped beneath his stubble. "Callahan," he murmured under his breath.
"You know him?" I whispered, my heart in my throat.
"Marcus Callahan," Desmond said, his eyes darkening to the color of a stormy sea. "The head of my South Side logistics union. My second-in-command for ten years. The man who sat in that very armchair last Tuesday, drinking my Scotch and promising me he’d find whoever planted that bomb."
Through the phone, a sharp screech of tires echoed across the line.
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"Nora!" Tyler screamed. "They found me! They're at the rail yard—"
A deafening crack cut through the speaker, followed by the sound of shattering glass and the line going entirely dead.
