CHAPTER 37: CHAPTER 37

The glowing red 2:17 AM burned into Ace’s retinas even after he closed his eyes, leaning his forehead harder against the cool wood of the motel door. Less than eight hours. The number pounded in his skull alongside his racing heart. Behind him, Silva’s retching finally subsided into weak, shuddering sobs from the bathroom. Evelyn moved first.

"We don’t have time for this," she stated, her voice stripped of fear, replaced by a cold, focused urgency. She flipped the light switch back on, the sudden glare making them all blink. "Silva! Get out here! We need your hands and eyes. Now!"

Silva stumbled out of the bathroom, pale and shaky, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked like he might collapse. "Wh-what? They’re coming back... he said—"

"He said 10 AM," Evelyn cut him off, already striding towards the bed. "Which means we have," she glanced at the clock, "seven hours and forty-three minutes to make copies of hell and hide the original. Ace, grab the box. Silva, clear this table."

Ace pushed himself off the door. The trembling in his hands stopped as a sense of purpose filled him. He yanked the mildewed shower curtain aside and hauled the heavy lockbox out, dragging it back to the center of the room. Silva, moving like a sleepwalker, swept the few scattered items off the wobbly table.

Evelyn took her phone out of her hoodie pocket and examined the scene. "The camera on this phone is good enough," she said, "but the lighting in here is really poor. Ace, please adjust the lamp to give us better light. Silva, when I tell you, make sure you hold those folders completely flat so I can get a clear picture." She moved to stand at the end of the table, holding her phone ready to take photos. "We’ll start with photographing the ledger first," Evelyn instructed. "It’s the most important document, it’s like our roadmap."

Ace wrestled the heavy lamp base back onto its stand and aimed the weak bulb directly at the table surface. Silva, with trembling fingers, opened the worn brown leather ledger. The cramped, messy handwriting swam on the page – dates, initials, dollar amounts, cryptic notes like ’JG - waterfront vote - delivered’ or ’MB - evidence locker - settled’.

"Hold the page flat, Silva," Evelyn ordered, her voice calm but firm. "The top left corner is curling, and Ace, I need more light on the right."

Silva pressed down hard on the page, his knuckles turning white. As Evelyn snapped a picture, the flash momentarily blinded them both. ’Next page,’ she commanded.

They fell into a grim, silent rhythm. Silva turned pages while Evelyn photographed them. Ace adjusted the light, his Info Finder passively scanning the room for threats, feeding him only mundane late-night activity: a distant siren, a delivery truck three blocks over. The tension was a live wire humming under the surface, but the immediate task in front of them forced everyone to stay narrowly focused.

Silva was reading the ledger when he suddenly froze halfway down the page. ’Oh god,’ he whispered in shock, pointing a shaking finger at an entry. The entry stated: ’Marco Silva - Finley’s drop was overheard. Payment is delayed. How should we handle this?’ Below that, a later note added: ’We have dealt with Silva. His loyalty is now ensured.’"

"See?" Silva’s voice shook as he spoke. "He knew! He knew I heard him talking to Finley about the Ramos debt months ago! That’s why his thugs kept leaning on me... ’ensuring loyalty’." He looked sick again. "he was planning to have me killed. He was going to kill me after he finished using me."

"Photographed," Evelyn said coolly, snapping the page. "Evidence for later. Keep turning, Silva." Her pragmatism was a lifeline.

They moved on to the folders. "Councilman R. Graves" contained damning bank statements showing unexplained deposits coinciding with key votes. "Detective M. Borland" had reports mysteriously altered and notes about "evidence management fees." Each folder was a grenade. Evelyn methodically photographed every page, her phone’s storage filling rapidly.

Next, the digital recorder. Ace played snippets, Evelyn recorded the audio directly onto her phone using a voice memo app. Deke’s calm, threatening voice filled the small room again, discussing bribes and threats with unseen power players. Silva flinched with each playback.

Finally, the unmarked black USB drive. Evelyn plugged it into her phone using an OTG cable she pulled from her pocket. "It’s encrypted," she muttered after a moment, her brow furrowed. "and it’s strong protection. Deke couldn’t have set this up by himself. Someone helped him."

"Can you crack it?" Ace asked, watching the clock tick to 3:48 AM.

"We can’t do this with just this phone," she tapped her phone, "and not in five hours. But..." She scrolled through the encrypted file names visible. "Look at these filenames: ’Ramos_Offshore_Alpha’, ’Ramos_Shipments_Beta’, ’Ramos_Personnel_Gamma’..." She looked up, her eyes wide with surprise. "This isn’t just Deke’s insurance. This is Ramos’s own data. How the hell did Deke get this?"

Ace remembered the panic in Deke’s voice at the scrapyard: "It’s my last resort! My lockbox!" "Blackmail within blackmail," Ace realized. "Deke wasn’t just holding dirt on city officials. He was holding dirt on Ramos. That’s why he thought he could sell it to Finley. That’s why Ramos wants it back so badly."

"Which makes it even more dangerous," Evelyn breathed. "We need this decrypted but we can’t do it now." She carefully ejected the USB. "For now, the photos and audio are our immediate weapons. But right now, we need to hide this box but Where?"

Silva looked a little steadier after hours of focused activity. "You know the old pool out back? The one they shut down? It hasn’t been touched in years. It’s basically just a concrete pit full of sludge and dead leaves now."

Ace remembered the spot behind the motel – a cracked, empty rectangle that used to be a pool. It was fenced off with sagging chain-link, a leftover from the Nite Owl’s slightly less rundown past. "The filter housing is there," he said, "a big concrete box near the deep end. It’s padlocked, but the lock is rusted shut."

"Perfect," Evelyn nodded. "Nobody voluntarily goes near it. Let’s move. The sun will be coming up in a few hours."

It was 4:52 AM. The air before dawn felt cold and damp. They slipped out of Room 7, Ace carrying the heavy lockbox, Silva clutching the ledger and folders they hadn’t finished photographing, Evelyn scanning the surroundings. The motel was eerily quiet, with the only sound being the distant hum of the city waking up.

They ducked under the sagging chain-link fence surrounding the old pool. The cracked concrete was littered with dead leaves, broken bottles, and thick, slimy algae. The filter housing was a squat concrete structure near the deep end, its heavy metal door secured by a thick, rusted padlock that looked like it hadn’t been opened since the 90s.

"Now what?" Silva whispered, eyeing the lock.

Ace set the box down. He focused his Neural-Interface on the padlock. It was just old, stubborn metal lock. He picked up a hefty chunk of broken concrete. "Stand back."

THUD! THUD! CRACK! Three heavy blows shattered the rust-weakened shackle. The lock fell away. Ace wrenched open the heavy metal door. A wave of foul, stagnant air hit them – damp earth, mildew, and decay. Inside, the space was dark and full of cobwebs, with broken and decayed filters scattered around.

"Perfect," Evelyn said, holding her nose. Ace shoved the lockbox deep into the grimy recess, behind the rusted filter carcasses. He slammed the heavy door shut. It wouldn’t lock, but it wouldn’t open easily either.

"Cover it," Evelyn instructed. Silva and Ace kicked loose debris, dead leaves, and handfuls of slimy algae against the base of the housing, obscuring the door. It looked like part of the decaying landscape.

It was 5:30 AM when they returned to Room 7, the atmosphere was different. The immediate, suffocating terror had eased, replaced by exhaustion and the grim tension of preparation. They’d photographed the remaining folders. Evelyn had transferred all the digital evidence – photos, audio files – onto two brand-new, encrypted USB drives Ace had bought weeks ago with System funds. One went into Ace’s pocket. The other, Evelyn sewed into the lining of her hoodie.

After some time, Ace checked the clock. It was 6:12 AM. He said "We’re surviving this. We need to bluff our way out. The box is gone. They didn’t see it. Marcus only assumed we had it because we were at the scrapyard. We must stick firmly to our story: we never had it, or if we did, we ditched it somewhere impossible to trace. However, we still hold the crucial digital proof. If Ramos tries to hurt us, we will threaten him to release that proof. That is our strategy."

Evelyn nodded. "The evidence is thin, but it’s all we have. Ace, you need to sell it coldly and confidently, just like you did with Marcus."

It was 7:55 AM now. Ace stood by the door. He wore his cleanest shirt under his jacket, trying to look less like a homeless kid and more like someone who controlled dangerous information. He is leaving the USB in his room. Evelyn’s burner number was on speed dial on his burner phone. Silva sat on the edge of the bed, looking like he might pass out. Evelyn stood near the window, peering through a slit in the curtain at the slowly brightening day.

"He won’t come alone," Evelyn said quietly. "Marcus will be there. Others will be there too. They’ll search you thoroughly."

"I know," Ace said. He felt strangely lighter without physical evidence on him.

8:30 AM. Silva couldn’t sit still. "What if he doesn’t believe you? What if he just... takes you? Tortures you to find the box? What if he sends guys here while you’re gone? What if—"

"Silva!" Evelyn snapped, turning from the window. "Stop it. Now. Breathe in and out. We have the data. We have the plan. Ace can do this." Her voice held more conviction than Ace felt.

Ace closed his eyes for a second, focusing inward. Info-Finder. Victor Ramos. Marcus. Vehicle. The skill pulsed, sifting the digital noise of the waking city.

VEHICLE SIGHTING: BLACK SUV (PLATE PARTIAL "XLR8") HEADING SOUTH ON HARBOR DRIVE.

ASSOCIATION: HIGH CONFIDENCE - RAMOS NETWORK.

PROJECTED ETA AT NITE OWL MOTEL: 8 MINUTES.

His eyes snapped open. "Evelyn," he said, his voice sounding urgent, "They’re early. Take Silva and go to The Grind House right now. Open early, brew coffee, and serve anyone who walks in. Act normal. If I’m not back by noon, or if you see Ramos’s men near the shop at all, send the proof to Ramos and threaten him to send it to every high profile person he knows."

Evelyn nodded. "Understood. Come back safely, Ace." She grabbed Silva’s arm. "Let’s go. We have to leave now."

Silva looked like he wanted to argue, but Evelyn propelled him towards the door. She gave Ace one last, fierce look before pulling Silva out into the morning light, heading towards the front of the motel, away from the pool, towards the main road and the coffee shop.

Ace was alone. The room felt suddenly vast and empty. The red numbers glowed 8:42 AM. He picked up the heavy lamp base. It felt both absurd and necessary. He took a deep breath, trying to summon the cold confidence he’d shown Marcus. You control the information. You have the leverage. You survived Deke. You will survive this too.

Outside, the low rumble of a powerful engine came closer and then stopped. After that, doors opened and closed, and heavy footsteps walked towards Room 7.

Ace placed the lamp base down beside the door where he could easily grab it. He squared his shoulders, wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, and unlocked the door. He opened it wide this time, stepping out onto the walkway, blocking the view inside.

Marcus stood there, flanked by four thugs this time, not two. His expression was unreadable. Behind him, idling at the curb, was the black SUV. And beside it, a sleek, black luxury sedan with mirrored windows. Victor Ramos had come himself.

"Morning, kid," Marcus rumbled, his cold eyes sweeping over Ace, then past him into the empty room. "Where’s the box?"