Chapter 7 - The Burner Phone
We drove for three hours until we reached a rundown motel in a small logging town near the Canadian border. I paid in cash, signing the ledger with a fake name.
The room smelled of stale cigarettes and damp carpet, but the heavy deadbolt on the door offered a fraction of peace.
I bought a cheap burner phone from a gas station across the street, along with some soup and Gatorade for Leo. He sat on the edge of the lumpy mattress, wrapping his thin hands around the warm styrofoam cup.
"Arthur is going to hunt us down," Leo said softly, staring into the broth. "He has unlimited resources. He owns half the judges in Seattle."
"He doesn't own the FBI," I replied, pulling the USB drive from my pocket. "We have his confession, Leo. We have the offshore accounts. He’s going down."
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"You don't get it, Sarah," Leo looked up, his eyes older than his sixteen years. "He didn't just steal the money. He's running an illegal shell corporation for a cartel. If this drive goes public, the cartel will kill him—but they’ll kill us first to silence the leak."
The gravity of our situation finally crushed the air from my lungs. We weren't just fighting a greedy uncle; we were fighting an international syndicate.
