Page 8 of Property of Booker

“Did you establish the secure line into the jailhouse as instructed?” he demands, coupling the question with a sudden directive. “Set up round-the-clock surveillance monitoring both the interior and exterior of that courtroom.”

“The inside of the courthouse doesn’t have a monitoring system, Jerome,” I say, internally rolling my eyes at him.

“Why the fuck not?” he asks, his tone seething.

I try to come up with an excuse that he’ll buy. For some reason, my gut tells me he shouldn’t know what happens inside that room. “Privacy act. The legal protocols for those specific courtrooms are incredibly strict, Jerome. They legally bar any internal broadcast or recording devices from operating during active proceedings to protect sensitive information. If I attempt to force a digital tap into an offline room like that, it will trigger an immediate structural alarm at the central hub, and the local marshals will lock down the network before we can gather a single byte of data.”

“Are you bullshitting me, Kendall? This feels like hogwash and you know I can’t stand to be deceived!”

I meet his gaze and force my expression to remain unreadable. My heart hammers against my ribs, but I hold his stare, refusing to look away even when his patience begins to fray. I know the thin ice I am walking on. He looms over me, a dark shadow of unpredictable rage, and I calculate the distance to the door while I search his face for a sign that he buys my excuse.

“I wouldn't lie to you, Jerome,” I say, keeping my voice level despite the cold sweat prickling at my neck. “I know exactly what happens when I do.”

“Yeah you do,” he gloats, a satisfied gleam in his eyes. He leans in closer, his heavy shadow completely eclipsing the dim light of the room, as if savoring the total submission he believes he has extracted from me. The absolute certainty of his control over me radiates from him in waves, feeding a bloated ego that thrives entirely on fear and domination. He takes a slow, deliberate step back, crossing his arms over his chest while his cruel sneer relaxes into a grin of pure triumph. For a man who rules his empire with iron fists and savage violence, this psychological victory is a drug he can’t resist. He genuinely believes he has broken my spirit, completely convinced that the brutal thrashing from yesterday has finally driven out any remaining thoughts of rebellion or deception from my mind. Watching him bask in this false sense of security makes the frantic, terrified pounding of my heart steady into something resembling focus. Let him gloat, and let him believe he has won this minor battle. Every second he spends wallowing in his own arrogance is another second he isn't looking closer at the digital architecture I have quietly spun right beneath his nose, waiting to tear his world apart.

“Find a way to get me what I want,” he commands, turning around on the heels of his feet and marching out of my room, slamming and locking the door behind him. It’s been a long time since he’s used the deadbolt on the other side to keep me hostage, but I know until I find a way to satisfy his curiosity, I’ll be in here for the long haul.

I scramble back to the terminal the second the crisp click of the deadbolt fades into silence. Alone again, I fly across the keys to reach Branson. He's online in an instant. He's a vital lifeline amidst this swirling chaos. I type out Jerome’s demand for the courtroom feed and wait as the cursor blinks back at me. There's no room for mistakes in this ploy. We pull up a cache of audio files, snatching voice snippets from public hearings, speeches, and depositions. It feels like I'm piecing together a forgery, crafting a synthetic reality where the judge hands down verdicts that never happen. We layer the audio to conceal our edits. We blend the fabricated dialogue with the natural static of the feed. It's a delicate house of cards. If Jerome takes a brief moment to verify the records against the official docket or scrutinize the digital signatures, the entire facade will crumble. I hold my breath as I listen to the hiss of the feed through my headphones and pray he buys the lie long enough for us to make our move.

CHAPTER

FIVE

Booker

A live video feed presents a massive security liability for both of us, serving as a flashing beacon on a network we know Jerome actively has his people scrub. Because of the emotional fallout from our last conversation and her abrupt exit, I had anticipated a standard text, a digital breadcrumb, or perhaps a raspy audio warning. Instead, when I finally click through, my breath catches in my throat as the feed connects in total silence, but rather than her bruised face filling the screen, the camera angle is skewed, peering out from a partially obscured slot near the base of her terminal desk. It is a hidden viewpoint directed straight into the dim, claustrophobic expanse of her workspace. My analytical mind immediately starts racing to calculate the imminent danger she has put herself in just to open this window. That confusion settles heavily in my chest as an intense weight of anticipation, right up until the low, gravelly timbre of a voice I have learned to despise cuts through the ambient hum of my server room. That is, until I hear the conversation unfolding between Jerome and the head of the syndicate.

The audio comes through perfectly. She must've installed custom drivers on her station. I catch every stutter in Jerome's voice. His usual swagger vanishes, leaving only raw tension behind. I even hear him pacing against the concrete. His steps sound frantic. My knuckles turn white as I grip the desk and listen to him argue.

“I’m working on it!” Jerome snaps, his voice tight.

On the other end of the line, the syndicate leader’s voice cuts in—a smooth, detached cold front. “We don't need promises, Jerome. We need the breakdown. Everything that woman gave the authorities. We need every name, every date, every location she might have compromised. Our operations are stalled, and we’re holding you responsible for the betrayal. This is your mess to fix, not ours.”

“Nobody has betrayed you, Lester. We all know what would happen to us and our family if we did,” Jerome’s voice crackles through the speaker, the usual oily confidence replaced by a frenzied edge.

“Do we, Jerome?” Lester’s voice is like a shard of ice, smooth and dangerous. “Because from where I’m sitting, your little technical experts have been exceptionally busy. The authorities are knocking on doors we spent a decade keeping locked. My shipments are being seized at the border, and three of my best associates are currently being fitted for orange jumpsuits. This isn’t a leak, it’s a flood, and the source is sitting right in your backyard. Loyalty is a fairy tale you tell yourself to sleep at night, Jerome. But let’s play your game. If they’re loyal, then why is the trail leading straight back to your servers? My people track the IP signatures. They don’t lie.”

Jerome’s breath hitches. “It’s a frame job. Somebody is spoofing my access codes. I am telling you, Kendall and Branson are locked down. I hold her son and his entire family.”

“Then keep a tighter leash,” Lester snaps. “Because if I lose another shipment, I’m not coming for them. I’m coming for you. And trust me, you don’t want to be the reason my pockets get light.”

I watch the waveform on my monitor spike as Jerome slams his fist down again. The sound vibrates through my headset, a dull thud that echoes the rhythm of my own heart.

“I’ll find the leak,” Jerome spits out, his voice cracking. “I’ll tear the system apart until I find the ghost in the machine.”

“You have until sunrise,” Lester says. “Fix this, or you’re the next one we write off.”

The line goes dead, leaving a hollow static that burns in my ears. I lean back, my chair groaning under the shift in weight. He’s running scared, and for the first time, I see the cracks in his armor. He isn’t the untouchable god he wants everyone to believe he is. He’s a man drowning, and he’s clawing at anything nearby to keep his head above water. My fingers hover over the keyboard. I’ve got him on the hook, but now I have to decide how hard to yank.

While I contemplate my next move, I listen as Jerome gives Vixen, whom I now know is Kendall thanks to the conversation between the two monsters, her next directive. I’m not sure if she’s aware she tied me into her system and not just the single window or not, but I’m taking advantage of it.

Through the hidden lens, I watch Jerome hover over her, barking orders. He wants a live link into the courthouse for the hearing. He’s obsessed with getting eyes in that room. Kendall doesn't blink. She rattles off some excuse about courtroom security and restricted access. She tells him any digital intrusion would set off sirens and bring the marshals down on them. The guy is a total moron. He thinks because he hurt her yesterday, he’s got her under his thumb. He stands there smug and satisfied, totally convinced he’s shattered her will. It makes my gut churn. Once he finally storms out, the deadbolt snaps shut behind him. Kendall doesn't hesitate. She’s back at the console in a flash, signaling Branson. They get to work immediately, splicing together old audio clips to build a fake courtroom stream. It’s a desperate, messy con job, but they’re layering it with enough intel to fool a dipshit like Jerome.

With each word she speaks and types, the wall I’ve built around my trust begins to crumble. I was determined to keep her at arm’s length, but the brutal evidence of Jerome’s rage on her face makes it impossible to see her as an adversary. She isn't just surviving—she is actively fighting back, risking her life and her son’s safety to give us an edge.

My typical analytical detachment has vanished, replaced by a fierce, protective urgency that overrides all caution. Witnessing her resilience, especially as she and Branson weave an intricate digital trap right under the asshole’s nose, has transformed her from a potential liability into a priority. If I step back now, I would leave her exposed to a man who won't hesitate to finish what he started. The mission has shifted—instead of just safeguarding the compound, we are tearing Jerome's empire down to the bedrock to pull Kendall and her boy out of the wreckage before the system crashes.

Branson uses their online connection to reveal the location of the hostages—the exact family members being used to coerce compliance from both of them, which is the only reason I am aware of the crisis he faces. Continuing to stream directly through her network and turning her own eyes and ears against her is something I should probably feel guilty about. But the deeper my insights, the more effectively I can protect my club, Kendall and her son, along with Branson and his relatives. It’s a win-lose situation I’m in, but it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission during times such as this.