CHAPTER 3: THE CINDER-BOX PROTOCOL
The interior of the black SUV was a vacuum of silence, save for the frantic, rhythmic tapping of Ivy's fingers against her laptop. Outside, the world was a smear of neon blue and ambulance red.
Orissa sat paralyzed in the far corner of the leather seat, the heavy emerald velvet of her gown feeling like lead against her skin. She didn't look at the tactical monitors showing the police perimeter closing in on the museum they had just escaped. She was staring at the window, seeing not the city, but the image of Sam Lutanza standing on that mezzanine.
He hadn't moved. He hadn't shouted. He had simply looked at her, and in that one look, ten years of hiding had been stripped away.
"O, breathe," Beatrix commanded. She was already tearing at her own transformation. She ripped the icy-platinum 'Sasha' wig from her head, tossing the expensive hair onto the floor of the van like it was trash. She grabbed a handful of wipes, scrubbing the heavy contouring from her face with a violence that left her skin red and raw. "We're out. We're clear."
"We aren't clear," Orissa whispered, her voice a ghost of itself. Her chocolate-brown eyes now visible as she popped the amber lenses into a tray were wide with a realization that bordered on physical pain. "He saw me, Bea. Not the mask. Not Isabella. He saw me."
"He was five hundred feet away on a balcony," Ivy snapped, her voice tight with the stress of the hack. "The light was dim, the masks were professional-grade, and the biometrics were looped. It's psychologically impossible for him to be sure."
"He didn't need to be sure," Orissa countered, turning to her friend. "He knew. I felt it. The way he held that silver coin... he wasn't surprised we were there. He was waiting."
Ivy's screen chirped a sharp, digital warning. "We have a problem. Detective Miller just found the 'sniffer' chip on Silas Vance's tuxedo. He's already ordered a localized EMP sweep of the area. If we go back to the Nest, we're bringing a GPS trail right to our front door."
"Then we don't go back," Beatrix said, her voice dropping into a low, survivalist tone. She reached for the driver's partition. "Change of plans. Initiate the Cinder-Box protocol. We're going dark. Completely dark."
The Cinder-Box was a place where hope went to die.
Located in the skeletal remains of the Industrial District, the apartment was a cramped, fourth-floor walk-up in a building that smelled of damp concrete and ancient tobacco. There were no smart-mirrors here. No high-speed servers. Just a single, flickering fluorescent bulb and windows painted shut with thick, black grime.
They arrived at 3:15 AM. The transition was jarring. One hour ago, they were sipping vintage champagne and moving through the world of the one-percent. Now, Orissa stood in the center of a room with peeling yellow wallpaper, the hem of her emerald dress trailing through the dust of a floor that hadn't seen a broom in years.
"I'm burning the Nest," Ivy announced. She sat on a milk crate, her laptop balanced on her knees. She hit a single red key.
Miles away, in their luxury loft, the silent thermite charges they had hidden in every server and hard drive ignited. Every piece of their "Isabella," "Sasha," and "Maria" identities was currently melting into a puddle of charred plastic.
"We're ghosts again," Ivy whispered, though she didn't sound relieved.
Beatrix walked into the tiny, rusted bathroom. The pipes groaned, a deep, metallic wail, before spitting out a stream of freezing, brown-tinted water. She didn't complain. She simply began to wash, the silver glitter from the Gala swirling down the drain like the remnants of a dream.
Orissa stood by the blacked-out window. She reached back, struggling with the zipper of her gown. Her fingers were shaking so violently she couldn't get a grip.
"Let me," Ivy said, stepping behind her.
As the emerald silk fell away, hitting the floor with a soft thud, Orissa felt the cold of the apartment sink into her bones. She stood in her simple black slip, looking around at the cracked ceiling and the exposed wires. This was the "Vow of Poverty." This was the reality they had returned to.
"He called me Orissa," she whispered into the silence.
Ivy stopped. "What?"
"In my head," Orissa corrected, though it felt like a lie. "When he looked at me... it was like he was saying it. Like he was reminding me that no matter how much money we steal or how many CEOs we break, we're still just the girls from the fire."
"He's one man, O," Beatrix said, stepping out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her head. "A powerful man, yes. But he's a man. He can be bled. He can be bankrupted. Just like Thorne. Just like Vance."
"Sam Lutanza doesn't care about money," Orissa said, turning to her friends. "That's what we forgot. He cares about legacy. And right now, we're the only stain on his."
The Precinct – 4:45 AM
Detective Elias Miller sat in his office, the only light coming from the glowing evidence bag on his desk. Inside was the silver coin.
"Sir?" an officer interrupted. "We've finished the sweep of the Museum's perimeter. The SUV they used was found abandoned three miles out, wiped with industrial bleach. No prints. No fibers."
Miller didn't look up. He was staring at a photo of the three women at the Gala. "They're smart. They knew the masks wouldn't hold up to a deep forensic scan, so they disappeared before the midnight toast. But they made one mistake."
"Sir?"
"They came back to Oakhaven," Miller said, his voice a low growl. "You don't come back to the place that broke you unless you're looking for something. They aren't just thieves. They're ghosts looking for their graves. Find me the records of the Lutanza Lab fire from ten years ago. I want the names of the survivors. Every single one."
The Cinder-Box – 5:30 AM
The first grey light of a miserable dawn began to leak through the cracks in the window paint. Ivy and Beatrix were slumped together on a single, thin mattress on the floor, their breathing heavy with the kind of exhaustion that only comes after a narrow escape.
Orissa sat against the door, her knees pulled to her chest. She was wearing a threadbare grey hoodie and leggings, her feet bare against the cold floor. She was holding a small, wooden box a burner kit containing a few thousand in cash and a clean passport.
A soft thump echoed from the other side of the door.
Orissa was on her feet in a heartbeat, a small, serrated blade sliding from the sleeve of her hoodie. She pressed her ear to the wood. The hallway was silent. No footsteps retreating. No breathing. Just the drip of a leaky pipe somewhere in the building.
She waited three full minutes. Then, she slowly turned the deadbolt.
She cracked the door open an inch. The hallway was empty. But resting against the threshold was a small, polished cedar box.
Orissa's heart stopped. She recognized the wood. She recognized the scent. It was her mother's jewelry box the one she thought had been lost when their estate was seized and liquidated.
She pulled it inside and locked the door, her hands trembling so hard she almost dropped it.
She opened the lid.
Inside, resting on a bed of black silk, was a single, fresh white jasmine flower. Its scent was overwhelming, filling the dusty, stagnant room with the smell of a garden that had been dead for a decade.
Tucked into the lining of the lid was a card. The cream-colored paper was thick, expensive, and bore no crest. Just a few words written in an elegant, sharp hand:
"The Cinder-Box is drafty, and you always did catch cold easily, Orissa. If you're going to hunt me, at least stay somewhere with a decent heater. See you at the Summit."
Orissa stared at the note, the words blurring as her eyes filled with tears of pure, unadulterated terror. He hadn't just recognized her. He had tracked her to a location that didn't exist on any map. He wasn't just watching her; he was haunting her.
She looked at her sleeping friends, then back at the jasmine flower. The "Silver Solitaire" thought they were the predators.
She realized now, as the sun finally rose over the jagged skyline of Oakhaven, that they were just the bait.