Chapter 7 - The Frequency of Treason
The frantic chirping from Clara's pocket cut through the hum of the fire trucks. Officer Miller, who had just jogged over to the triage area, reached for his radio.
""What is that noise?"" Miller asked, his eyes darting toward Clara.
""It's not just a panic button,"" Clara said, pulling the transmitter from her coat. A small red diode was blinking beside the blue power indicator, glowing brighter with every rhythmic beep. ""It's an RF beacon. It was broadcasting our coordinates the entire time.""
Across the street beneath the oak tree, the man in the trench coat lowered his phone and stepped backward into the shadows of the alleyway.
""Suspect moving down the alley behind 442 Elmira!"" Miller shouted into his shoulder mic, drawing his weapon and lunging across the flooded street in pursuit.
The paramedics hurried Elena into the back of the ambulance, closing the heavy rear doors with a mechanical slam. ""Ma'am, you need to step back. We have to transport her to Mercy General immediately—she has severe smoke inhalation and second-degree burns.""
""Let me ride with her,"" Clara pleaded, stepping onto the metal bumper.
The paramedic shook his head. ""Protocol doesn't allow civilian passengers during active respiratory trauma transport. Follow us in a cruiser.""
The ambulance pulled away, its sirens screaming into the night. Clara was left standing alone in the rain-soaked gutter as emergency personnel swarmed the burning building.
Behind her, the secondary patrol vehicle pulled up. Torres stepped out, leaving Julian locked in the backseat behind the reinforced metal grating. Julian's forehead was pressed against the glass. He was smiling. A cold, victorious smile that drained the warmth from Clara’s veins.
May you like
Clara walked toward the window. Julian mouthed six words through the glass, his breath fogging the barrier:
The ledger was never at Elena’s.
