Chapter 2 - The Safe House on the Coast
Within twenty minutes, my men had cleared the house. We didn't call the police. In Portland, Precinct 4 was owned by men who took paychecks from the very syndicates that ran red-light districts and illicit labs. If I handed these children over to a squad car, their names would be on a manifest before nightfall, and whoever ran that basement would know exactly where to find them.
We loaded all five children into the back of my custom Escalade. Marco had gone to a corner grocery store and bought every bottle of clean water, fresh fruit, and soft blanket he could carry.
Leo sat in the front passenger seat beside me, his small hands holding a warm bottle of apple juice like it was made of solid gold.
"Who lived in that house, Leo?" I asked as I drove west, heading away from the city lights toward my private estate on the Oregon coast.
"Arthur," Leo said. "He told us he was our uncle. But he wasn't. He brought us from the shelter in Eugene last year. He said if we made noise, he'd put us in the ground under the garage."
"And the work down there?"
"He made the white powder," Leo said flatly. "We had to pack it into small plastic bags. Maya"—he gestured toward the ten-year-old girl in the back, who was currently asleep with her head on Silas's lap—"was too small to use the sealer, so she had to wipe the bottles."
My hands tightened on the leather steering wheel until my knuckles turned white.
I had built my empire on territory control, protection, and private enforcement. I was no saint. The city called me a ruthless mob boss, and they weren't wrong. But there were lines. Lines drawn in iron and blood. Anyone who used children to manufacture poison while keeping them chained in the dirt had surrendered their right to breathe the same air as the rest of us.
We reached my Cannon Beach property at dusk. The estate sat on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean, guarded by high iron gates, private security teams, and three German Shepherds trained to tear down intruders. It was the safest place in the Pacific Northwest.
My housekeeper, Elena—a woman who had been with my family for thirty years—was waiting on the porch. The moment she saw the children step out of the SUV, her eyes filled with tears. She didn't ask questions. She simply gathered them in her arms, leading them inside toward hot baths, clean clothes, and a warm hearth.
I stood on the driveway, lighting a cigar to clear the smell of that cellar from my lungs. Silas walked up beside me, handing me a satellite phone.
"I ran the name Arthur Vance through our internal database," Silas said softly. "It's an alias. The deed to that house belongs to a holding company controlled by the Iron Syndicate."
I paused, the flame of my lighter hovering inches from the cigar. "The Iron Syndicate? Vanguard's crew?"
"Yeah," Silas nodded, his face dark. "Vanguard's been trying to push his synthetic supply into the Eastside for six months. Looks like he found a way to cut his overhead—using off-grid houses and kids nobody would report missing."
"Vanguard made a mistake," I said, snapped the lighter shut, and blew a thick plume of smoke into the ocean breeze. "He thought because I was quiet this winter, I was soft."
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"What are your orders, Boss?"
"Tell Marco to bring our top ten operators to the estate by midnight," I replied. "And tell our contact in the city registry to pull every property record associated with Vanguard's front companies. We aren't just taking down a lab, Silas. We're tearing his entire foundation out of the dirt."
