Vance didn’t press play on the tape recorder. Not yet. He grabbed his radio, calling in a frantic code for emergency medical services to the Crowne estate. Judge Harrison was barely clinging to life, but if Vance stayed here to babysit him, Elias Crowne would vanish into the cold forever.
Leaving the shivering judge in the library, Vance followed a trail of wet, muddy footprints—a size 10 work boot—that led away from the plush carpets and down a narrow hallway toward the mansion's subterranean levels. The air grew progressively colder as he descended the concrete stairs into Crowne’s multi-million dollar underground garage.
The space was a cathedral of polished chrome and vintage Italian leather, housing over twenty luxury vehicles. But Vance’s flashlight beam immediately snapped to the center of the room.
There, sitting on a pristine white marble display platform, was a twisted, mangled piece of scrap metal. It was the remains of a 2024 Aston Martin. It was the exact car Elias Crowne had been driving the night he killed Dr. Sebastian Crowne. The evidence that was supposed to have been crushed and destroyed years ago.
Vance approached the wreckage, his gun raised. The windows were shattered, the hood crumpled like tin foil.
"Crowne?" Vance called out.
A muffled, desperate thumping echoed from inside the crushed vehicle. Vance rushed to the driver's side, shining his light through the broken window.
Elias Crowne, the untouchable billionaire heir, was shoved violently behind the steering wheel of the wrecked car. He was strapped in with heavy industrial zip ties, his expensive silk shirt torn and stained. His eyes were wide with sheer terror, staring blindly at a tablet mounted to the dashboard. The screen was playing a continuous, looping security footage of the fatal crash that had taken Dr. Crowne's life.
Crowne’s lips were blue. The interior of the car was freezing. A heavy-duty hose was fed through the shattered windshield, pumping sub-zero air directly from an industrial nitrogen tank into the cramped cabin.
Vance holstered his weapon and pulled out his tactical knife, struggling to pry the crushed door open. "Hold on, Crowne! I'm getting you out!"
As Vance finally managed to wedge the door open, Crowne fell outward, gasping for warm air, his body violently convulsing. As he tumbled onto the cold garage floor, a playing card fluttered from his collar, landing face up in a puddle of freezing condensation.
The King of Clubs.
Vance looked at the card, then up at the nitrogen tank. Taped to the heavy metal cylinder was a fresh, handwritten note:
“Three down. But a King cannot rule without his Queen. Ask yourself, Vance… who drove the getaway car?”
Vance froze. Elias Crowne hadn’t been alone in the car that night. But Arthur Sterling had made sure the passenger's identity was completely erased from the police reports. A passenger that Vance’s own precinct had helped cover up.