Gabriel braced his arm against the dashboard.

“Get down,” he said.

I leaned over the leather seat, clutching the ledger to my ribs.

The driver slammed on the brakes, forcing the SUV to overshoot the exit.

We swerved onto the narrow ramp leading toward the financial district, leaving the black vehicle trapped in the main tunnel traffic.

“They’re blocked,” Gabriel said, looking back through the rear window.

“Who sent the text?” I asked, my voice shaking as I sat up.

“Ethan’s people,” Gabriel said, releasing his grip on his holster. “He’s desperate.”

We drove straight to the Dirksen Federal Courthouse on Dearborn Street.

The gray stone facade looked cold under the overcast Chicago sky.

Two federal agents met us at the side entrance, their badges gleaming in the dim light.

I handed the ledger directly to Assistant U.S. Attorney Miller.

The paper felt cold, the cover worn at the corners where my mother’s fingers had once rested.

“This is everything we need,” Miller said, flipping through the pages of transactions.

The trial of Richard Bennett and Ethan Cole began three weeks later.