The machine beeped. It didn’t process.
The cashier frowned, pulling the card out and swiping the magnetic strip. The screen flashed a bright, angry red.
“Is there a problem?” Mia snapped, rolling her eyes at her mother. “The machine is probably broken. That card has no limit.”
The cashier stared at the terminal screen, her face suddenly draining of all color. The message on the screen did not say DECLINED. It was a message the cashier had never seen in her ten years of retail.
FRAUDULENT CORPORATE ASSET. DO NOT RETURN CARD TO CUSTOMER. CONFISCATE IMMEDIATELY. CONTACT FEDERAL AUTHORITIES (CODE: ICARUS).
“I’m… I’m sorry, ma’am,” the cashier said, her voice suddenly tight and trembling. She pulled the black card away from the counter, stepping backward toward the manager’s office. “The terminal is telling me to confiscate this card. I have to call security.”
“Excuse me?!” Mia shrieked, her face twisting into an ugly mask of rage. She lunged forward, reaching over the glass counter to try and snatch the card back. “You incompetent idiot! That is my card! Give it back right now or I will have your job!”
“Mia, sweetie, calm down,” my mother whispered, suddenly sensing the shift in the atmosphere of the room. People were staring, but not with admiration. They were staring with alarm.
“No! I am not leaving without my property!” Mia screamed. But the cashier had already retreated behind a locked security door.
Furious, humiliated, and operating purely on the adrenaline of her own entitlement, Mia grabbed her mother’s arm. “Forget this trashy store. We’re leaving. I’ll just call my bank from the car and have them fire her.”
Mia stormed out of the boutique, her mother trailing nervously behind her. They power-walked down the sun-drenched sidewalk of Rodeo Drive, heading straight for the valet stand where the stolen matte-black Range Rover was parked perfectly at the curb.
Mia snatched the keys from her purse, her hands shaking with rage. She yanked the driver’s side door open and threw herself into the plush leather seat. Her mother hurried into the passenger side.
“The nerve of that woman,” Mia spat, jamming her finger against the push-to-start ignition button.
The powerful engine roared to life. But as Mia reached for the gear shifter, the massive digital navigation screen in the center console suddenly glitched. The map disappeared. The screen went entirely black.
Then, a stark white, digitized logo of a silver wolf—the emblem of Sterling Enterprises—flashed onto the screen.
THUNK.
The heavy, mechanical sound of all four doors deadlocking simultaneously echoed through the cabin.
Mia frowned, yanking on the door handle. It didn’t budge. “What the hell is wrong with this car?” she muttered, pressing the unlock button on the door panel. Nothing happened. The electronic locks had been completely disabled from the vehicle’s mainframe.
Before Mia could even begin to process the panic rising in her chest, the sunlight streaming through the windshield was blocked out.
Three massive, unmarked, black Chevrolet Suburbans screeched to a halt in the middle of Rodeo Drive. One boxed the Range Rover in from the front, kissing the bumper. One blocked the rear. The third parked parallel, entirely trapping the vehicle against the curb.
“Mia… what is happening?” my mother whispered, her voice trembling as heavily armed men in tactical gear and dark windbreakers reading FBI – FINANCIAL CRIMES DIVISION poured out of the Suburbans.
Mia yanked desperately on the door handle, her fake, luxurious world crashing down around her with terrifying, inescapable speed.
Chapter 4: The Confrontation
In the boardroom, Victor turned away from the monitor. He adjusted the cuffs of his bespoke suit.
“The vehicle is secured,” Victor said quietly. He looked at me, offering his arm. “Shall we go retrieve my property, Chloe?”
“Let’s,” I replied.
We took the private elevator down to the subterranean garage, stepping into the back of Victor’s armored, extended-wheelbase Mercedes Maybach. The drive to Beverly Hills took less than twenty minutes with the police escort Victor’s security team had arranged.
When the Maybach pulled up to the valet stand on Rodeo Drive, the scene was one of absolute, chaotic devastation.
