Chapter 3 - The Ghost Ledger
The back room of the clubhouse smelled of stale beer, motor oil, and old paper. The walls were lined with rusted filing cabinets and corkboards covered in faded maps. Leo sat at her father's massive mahogany desk. It swallowed her up, but she sat rigidly straight, her feet dangling inches above the scuffed floorboards.
Vance dropped a stack of leather-bound books onto the desk. The dust plumed into the air. "These are the books, boss," he said, the title feeling strange but surprisingly right on his tongue. "Our finances. Our routes. It's bad. Since Marcus died, Silas Reed has bribed our local law enforcement connections. He’s choked our distribution. We have exactly three days of operating capital left before the generators shut off and the men go hungry."
Leo flipped open the top ledger. Her eyes darted across the columns of numbers. "This is a front," she said dismissively.
Vance frowned. "Excuse me?"
"My father was many things, but he was not stupid enough to leave his true leverage in a book anyone could read." Leo reached into her worn coat and pulled out a small, black notebook, no bigger than a deck of cards. Its edges were frayed, the leather soft from years of handling. "He kept the real numbers here. And he kept the secrets here."
Vance stared at the black book with a mixture of awe and apprehension. "What is that?"
"Insurance," Leo replied. She opened the black notebook to a page marked with a red ribbon. "Silas Reed didn't build an empire in six months on muscle alone. He needed capital. He needed blackmail. My father knew this. He spent the last year of his life compiling a dossier on Silas. Every dirty politician he bribed, every police captain he paid off, every offshore account he uses to launder his drug money."
Vance pulled up a chair, sitting heavily. "Marcus had all this? Why didn't he use it?"
"Because he was waiting for the right moment to strike," Leo said, her eyes darkening. "He wanted to destroy Silas entirely, not just wound him. But Silas moved first." She tapped a tiny, ink-stained finger against a specific line of text. "Look here. Account routing numbers in the Cayman Islands. Silas uses a front company—Ironclad Logistics—to move his cash. But my father found the backdoor. He found the password to the digital vault."
A slow, dangerous smile spread across Vance's scarred face. "If we drain that account... Silas won't just be broke. The cartels he buys from will put a bounty on his head for missing payments."
"Exactly," Leo said. "We don't need to outgun the Iron Jackals, Vance. We just need to cut their purse strings. When a mercenary stops getting paid, his loyalty evaporates."
Suddenly, a loud banging echoed from the main bar area. Shouts erupted, followed by the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being racked. Vance shot up from his chair, his hand dropping instinctively to the heavy .45 caliber pistol holstered at his hip.
Leo didn't flinch. She calmly closed the black notebook and slipped it back into her pocket. "Let's see who is knocking," she said quietly, sliding off the oversized chair.
When they walked back into the main room, the Silver Wolves had formed a semi-circle around the entrance. Standing in the doorway, hands raised in a mock gesture of peace, was a tall, skeletal man in an Iron Jackals leather cut. He had a greasy smile and a silver tooth that caught the bar's neon lights.
"Easy now, boys," the Jackal said smoothly. "I come under a banner of parley. Sent by Silas Reed himself."
Vance pushed his way to the front, his massive frame blocking Leo from view. "You've got ten seconds to speak your piece, Roach, before I mount your head on my handlebars."
The man named Roach chuckled. "Silas heard a rumor. He heard the mighty Silver Wolves are taking orders from a toddler. He sent me to offer a deal. Surrender the clubhouse by midnight, hand over all remaining assets, and he’ll let you boys ride out of state alive. If not... he burns this place to the ground with everyone inside."
Vance growled, drawing his weapon, but a small hand tugged on his leather vest. He looked down, stepping aside to let Leo step forward.
Roach's greasy smile faltered as he looked down at the ten-year-old girl. "Well, I'll be damned. The rumor is true."
Leo stared at him, her face an unreadable mask. "Tell Silas Reed I decline his offer. And tell him to check his offshore accounts. By the time you ride back to your compound, Ironclad Logistics will be entirely bankrupt."
Roach laughed, a sharp, barking sound. "You're a funny kid. You think you can—"
"Vance," Leo interrupted softly. "Shoot him in the knee. Then throw him outside."
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The gunshot was deafening. Roach screamed, collapsing to the floor, clutching his shattered kneecap. The greasy smile was gone, replaced by pure agony and terror.
Leo stepped closer to the writhing man, looking down at him with cold, calculating eyes. "I am not a rumor, Roach. I am Marcus Thorne's daughter. Now crawl back to your master and tell him the wolves are hunting."
