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From Prison Bars To Gold Bars. 205. Statement
The tiny interrogation room smelled of coffee grounds and cheap disinfectant.Van sat at a metal table while Officer Lange — a thin man with sharp knuckles and tired eyes — set a battered laptop between them, the clack of keys loud in the stillness.“Just for record-keeping,” Lange said, sliding a form across the table. “Your statement, in your words. Then you’ll sign."Van picked up the pen without a word. His hands were steady. They had to be.As he wrote, the memories bled out — reluctant, stubborn things that didn’t want to be touched.He didn't glance at Lange again until he dropped the pen with a soft clatter and shoved the paper back across the table."You’ll get a copy," Lange said, not looking up from the screen.Van leaned back, letting his head rest against the cool concrete wall.Through the tiny square of glass in the door, he could see movement — Raúl speaking with someone, gesturing sharply.The meeting was already being set.Van closed his eyes briefly. And, against hi
From Prison Bars To Gold Bars. 206. The Meeting
The morning broke grim and gray, clouds rolling low over the city like a warning.Van sat behind the wheel of his car, staring through the windshield at the police station’s worn brick facade.His hands were steady on the steering wheel, but his gut twisted with a slow, simmering tension.In another life, he might have driven away.But that man — the man who cut and ran — didn’t exist anymore.He shut off the engine, stepped out into the cold drizzle, and walked toward the front doors.Inside, the station buzzed with a strange energy. Officers moved faster than usual, voices lower, sharper.Van caught the flicker of glances thrown his way — suspicion, curiosity, pity.He ignored them all.At the far end of the hallway, Officer Raúl Mendes stood outside a conference room, arms crossed.A thin folder tucked under one arm, a slight frown pulling at the corners of his mouth."Right on time," Raúl said as Van approached.Van nodded once. "Who’s here?"Raúl’s mouth twitched in something lik
From Prison Bars To Gold Bars. 207. Hidden Video
Van sat alone in the parking lot for a long time after the meeting ended, rain streaking the windshield in thin, crooked lines.The world outside blurred into shapes — gray buildings, hunched figures, headlights crawling like sluggish insects.He should have driven home.He should have gone back to Ivy, to his kids, to the life he was trying so hard to hold onto.Instead, he found himself tapping out a message to Officer Raúl.Van: You said there was a video. Bianca's apology. I want to see it.Raúl’s reply came almost instantly, curt and without pleasantries.Raúl: Come back inside. Room 2C. Ask for Lange.Van stared at the screen for a beat, then shoved the door open and walked back through the cold.★★★Room 2C was smaller than he expected, barely more than a closet with a chair, a table, and a battered computer monitor.Officer Lange was already waiting, arms folded, expression unreadable."You sure you want to see this?" he asked.Van nodded once.Without another word, Lange hit
From Prison Bars To Gold Bars. 208. Shadows
By the time Van pulled into his driveway, night had fallen thick and heavy.The streetlights flickered in the mist, casting long, trembling shadows across the pavement.From the outside, his house looked warm, ordinary.Lights glowed behind the curtains.He could hear faint laughter — Ivy and the twins, safe inside.For a moment, Van allowed himself to breathe.Allowed himself to believe that maybe the nightmare was still somewhere far away.He killed the engine and climbed out of the truck, boots crunching on wet gravel.That’s when he noticed it.A black car idling two houses down. Windows tinted so dark they swallowed the reflection of the streetlights.Van froze, instincts honed in prison roaring to life.The car didn’t move. Didn’t flash its lights.Just sat there, silent and watchful.Pretending he hadn’t seen it, Van walked calmly to his front door.But his spine tingled the whole way.He unlocked the door, stepped inside, and threw the bolt behind him.★★★"I thought you’d be
From Prison Bars To Gold Bars. 209. Hidden Evidence
By morning, Van’s exhaustion had settled into something harder, sharper.He moved through the kitchen like a machine, fixing breakfast for the kids, kissing Ivy goodbye as she wrangled them into coats and backpacks.He didn’t mention the phone call.Or the black car.Or the fingerprints.He needed answers before he dragged his family any deeper into the quicksand.When the door shut behind them, Van grabbed his jacket and keys, heading straight for the station without warning Raúl or Lange.If they weren’t going to treat him like a real part of this investigation, fine.He would do it himself.★★★The precinct lobby buzzed with the usual noise, but Van barely registered it.He made a beeline for the records office — a cramped room stuffed with filing cabinets and bored clerks pretending to work."Morning," Van said, flashing a tight smile at the woman behind the counter."I’m supposed to pick up some paperwork. Officer Lange said he left it for me."The woman didn’t even blink. She ju
From Prison Bars To Gold Bars. 210. Dangerous Names
Van didn’t go home.Not yet.Instead, he drove through the city’s veins, the car's engine growling under him, weaving toward places he hadn’t been in years.Neighborhoods where the streetlights were busted and the only thing thicker than the smog was the silence.The kind of places where people heard screams in the night and didn’t open their windows.He had to find someone who could talk.Someone who didn’t mind getting their hands dirty.He had to find out what Jared Barron was hiding — and why Bianca had been caught in the middle.★★★Van’s first stop was a rundown bar on the south end — a place called Kessler’s that used to be a hotbed for low-level criminals, washed-up ex-cons, and the kind of men who did "favors" if the price was right.Inside, the air smelled like sweat, whiskey, and bad decisions.Van didn’t recognize the new bartender, but the big man slouched at the end of the counter was familiar — Marcus Holt, a name from Van’s old life.Ex-fixer. Ex-muscle-for-hire.Curre
From Prison Bars To Gold Bars. 211. Van's Investigation
The next morning, Van woke before dawn, jolted out of a restless sleep by a dream he couldn’t quite remember.Something about Bianca — running, reaching for him — and the sound of waves crashing against stone.He shook it off and dressed quietly, careful not to wake Ivy.The house felt colder than usual, shadows clinging to the corners.Outside, the sky was still black.The city crouched under the weight of an incoming storm, clouds bruised and low.Van slid into his truck and headed downtown.He wasn’t going to waste another minute.Today, he needed proof.Not whispers.Not threats.Proof.His first stop was City Records, a brutalist concrete building that smelled like mildew and stale coffee.Most people didn’t realize you could find the real dirt here — property deeds, business licenses, permits that could tell you who really owned what in this town.Van had learned the system a long time ago.Back when he needed to survive.He slipped into the public archive room and started diggi
From Prison Bars To Gold Bars. 212. Meeting In The Rain
The storm didn’t let up.It pounded the city in thick, angry sheets, flooding gutters, choking the storm drains, turning alleyways into rivers of filth.Van watched it from the living room window, one hand curled around a cold cup of coffee.He hadn’t slept.He couldn’t.Not with the bloody scrap locked away in his desk drawer.Not with Ivy pretending everything was fine for the kids’ sake.At 2:37 a.m., his phone buzzed again.Unknown Number.Van snatched it up.A text this time.MEET ME.PARKER’S GARAGE. 4AM. COME ALONE.No signature.No instructions.But Van already knew he was going.★★★Parker’s Garage was an old, abandoned auto shop on the east side, gutted years ago after a fire.Van remembered it from his teenage years — a place where kids would go to drink, fight, and hide from the world.He drove through the drowned streets, headlights cutting through the rain like a blade.The city felt deserted, haunted.Every instinct told him this was a trap.He went anyway.He pulled up
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220. The Raid
The black SUV tore through the city streets, weaving between cars and running red lights.Rain slapped against the windshield in heavy sheets, turning the world into a blur of lights and shadows.Van sat in the passenger seat, jaw tight, fingers tapping a restless rhythm on his knee.Beside him, Keller drove like a man possessed, silent and focused.Carla sat in the back, double-checking the blueprints of the warehouse on her tablet."Franklin and Third," she muttered."Two floors. Old textile plant. Abandoned for years. No security cameras, no neighbors — perfect place to stash someone."Van’s stomach twisted.It was too perfect.He kept flashing back to Vance’s words: If they think you’re coming, they’ll move her—or worse.He couldn't afford to think about what worse meant.Not now.Not when they were this close.They arrived in less than fifteen minutes.The warehouse loomed out of the mist like a dead thing — gray, crumbling, windows shattered, rust eating through the metal doors.
219. Confession
The air inside the van was thick with tension.Julian Vance sat slumped against the wall, wrists cuffed to a metal ring bolted to the floor.The blindfold was gone, but fear had carved deep lines into his face.Sweat soaked through his shirt despite the cold night air.Across from him, Van leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, studying him like a puzzle that needed solving.Keller sat beside Van, silent and looming, while Carla hovered near the door, tablet in hand, recording everything.No one spoke for a long moment.They let the fear do its work first.Vance fidgeted, his eyes darting from face to face, looking for a crack, a kindness.He found none.Finally, Keller broke the silence."You know who we are," he said calmly."You know why you’re here."Vance licked his lips."I—I’m just an accountant," he stammered."I don’t know anything."Keller smiled thinly."You know enough to get yourself killed. Or saved. Your choice."Vance’s hands twisted in the cuffs."I can’t," he whisper
218. The Aftermath
The night was soaked in the heavy stench of gunpowder and rain.Sirens howled in the distance — getting closer — but Agent Keller’s team moved fast.They swept the abandoned lot, securing what little evidence Moses had left behind: a few casings, tire tracks gouged deep into the mud, a broken phone.It wasn’t enough.Moses had disappeared like a phantom into the night, and worse — he had seen through the setup.Van had barely made it out alive.Inside the mobile command van, Keller slammed his fist against the table."Someone tipped him off," he growled."There’s no way he walked into that meeting with backup unless he knew we were coming."Carla sat beside Van, wrapping a makeshift bandage around his bleeding arm.Her hands were steady, but her face was grim.Van winced as the gauze tightened, but he barely felt the pain.His mind was somewhere else.A traitor.Someone inside their circle.Someone who had sold them out to Moses.Keller paced furiously, barking orders into his radio,
217. The Hunt
The plan was simple on paper.Simple, but dangerous.Van stood at the cracked concrete window of a forgotten motel room on the edge of the city, watching the rain smear the world into gray blurs.Inside the room, Agent Keller was setting up equipment — laptops, burner phones, tiny recorders the size of coins — while Carla scribbled notes furiously into a weathered notebook.Van’s nerves hummed under his skin.He wasn’t a cop.He wasn’t a spy.He was just a man trying to survive.And now, somehow, he was about to help bring down one of the most powerful men in the city."Here’s the plan," Keller said, pulling Van’s attention back.He laid out a rough blueprint of the next 48 hours:Van would reach out to Moses — casual, non-threatening — suggest a meeting under the pretense of "burying the hatchet."Offer him information.Play on his paranoia.The idea was to draw Moses out.Get him somewhere isolated.Somewhere they could grab him without witnesses.If they could catch Moses talking —
216. Warehouse Meeting
Van’s mind was spinning as he approached the dilapidated warehouse by the docks.The wind whipped at his coat, the sound of waves crashing against the concrete pier mixing with the distant hum of city traffic.This place had once been a hub of activity, a center of trade and industry.Now, it was just a hollow skeleton, abandoned and forgotten.Perfect.It was the kind of place where you could disappear without a trace.Van approached cautiously, his footsteps echoing in the empty street.The docks were deserted at this hour, save for a few stray cats rummaging through trash.No sign of anyone watching.But he knew better than to assume that meant safety.They were out there.Someone was always watching.His fingers brushed against the rough stone of the warehouse’s exterior as he rounded the corner.A single light flickered above the entrance, casting long, crooked shadows.A thick metal door was ajar, just enough to let him slip inside.Van hesitated for a moment, then pushed it ope
215. Late Warning
The city looked different in the dead of night.From the back of the taxi, Van saw it all pass in a blur — the glimmering skyline, the fog rolling across the river, the endless rows of apartments stacked up like cheap cardboard boxes.But it was the shadows he saw most clearly.The places where people hid their sins.Van rubbed his fingers over the cracked screen of Bianca’s phone.The evidence was still fresh in his mind — too fresh. The videos, the photos, the recordings.He hadn’t even begun to process it all.But he couldn’t stop now.He couldn’t let them win.The taxi rolled to a stop at the airport’s long-term parking lot.Van didn’t get out.Instead, he stared through the windshield at the flickering terminal lights, his thoughts spiraling.Was this it?Was he about to leave everything behind?Ivy, the kids, his life as he knew it?He couldn’t.He wouldn’t.But he also couldn’t stay.He needed allies.Van stepped out of the taxi and paid the driver in cash before walking throug
214. Secrets
Van didn’t go straight home. He knew better. If they were watching him — and after tonight, he was sure of it — bringing danger to Ivy and the kids would be unforgivable. Instead, he drove to a cheap motel on the edge of town, the kind of place nobody asked questions and the cameras were either broken or faked. The neon VACANCY sign buzzed weakly against the rain-soaked sky as Van pulled into the lot. Room 12 smelled like mold and old cigarettes, but it had a lock on the door and curtains thick enough to block the world out. For now, that was enough. He locked the door, jammed a chair under the knob, and dumped the soaked backpack on the stained mattress. He pulled out Bianca’s phone with trembling hands. Still wet. Still cracked. Still hers. Van sat down heavily and got to work. First step: dry the phone. He stripped it carefully, removing the battered SIM card and the microSD tucked into the side. Both small enough to fit in his wallet. He left the phone shell near
213. Hidden Tunnels
The marina was deserted. The storm had driven everyone indoors, and the usual hum of yacht engines and tourist chatter was replaced by the howl of the wind against steel masts. Boats bobbed violently in the dark water, their ropes creaking like dying animals. Van parked three blocks away and approached on foot, keeping to the shadows. The piece of paper with the coordinates was damp in his pocket, but he had already memorized them. The entrance to the old service tunnels wasn’t easy to find. Most people didn’t even know they existed — relics from when the marina had been part of a naval shipyard decades ago. Now, the city had simply built over them, sealing the past under concrete and forgetting. But Van remembered. His father had worked the shipyards once, before everything went wrong. He found the access point tucked behind a rusted utility shed — a heavy steel hatch, half-hidden by tangled vines. He tugged at the handle. Locked. Van gritted his teeth, pulled a crowbar
212. Meeting In The Rain
The storm didn’t let up.It pounded the city in thick, angry sheets, flooding gutters, choking the storm drains, turning alleyways into rivers of filth.Van watched it from the living room window, one hand curled around a cold cup of coffee.He hadn’t slept.He couldn’t.Not with the bloody scrap locked away in his desk drawer.Not with Ivy pretending everything was fine for the kids’ sake.At 2:37 a.m., his phone buzzed again.Unknown Number.Van snatched it up.A text this time.MEET ME.PARKER’S GARAGE. 4AM. COME ALONE.No signature.No instructions.But Van already knew he was going.★★★Parker’s Garage was an old, abandoned auto shop on the east side, gutted years ago after a fire.Van remembered it from his teenage years — a place where kids would go to drink, fight, and hide from the world.He drove through the drowned streets, headlights cutting through the rain like a blade.The city felt deserted, haunted.Every instinct told him this was a trap.He went anyway.He pulled up
