Chapter 6: Fallout

Montréal’s first snow fell like gray ash. I was in a third-floor apartment above a corner store on Rue Saint-Denis, hood up, cap low, breath showing in the cold room. The radiator banged like a broken machine; the one window looked over an alley with melting ice dripping into trash bins that smelled of old fries and smoke. R paid six months’ rent under Jean-Marc Lefèvre—a name from an old death notice. The landlord, Madame Duval, took the cash, gave me a key on a bent nail, and disappeared behind a curtain that smelled of spice and cleaner.

The CARTER ARCHIVE – FULL was out.

47 terabytes.

200 shares.

A huge bomb online.

I watched it spread.

• 00:03 EST – First share hit 100 people.

• 00:17 – #SilkenCommands topped world trends, beating elections and star deaths.

• 00:41 – A Swiss address linked to a fake company tried to crash it. It bounced to Russian computers and broke their own system.

• 01:12 – Interpol sent an alert for unknown people tied to Carter company, Vantage Capital, and three island trusts.

The dark web was wild. VantageVault had a top thread—12,000 replies:

“FIND MAYA TORRES – DEAD OR ALIVE”

Bounty: $500K alive, $250K for proof. Paid in crypto or bonds. A fake video of me tied with the red ribbon sold for crypto in a minute. Someone shared a 3D face model—“Ghost Star Experience”—already 3,000 downloads.

CNN: “SEX RING LINKED TO BILLIONAIRE DAMIAN CARTER—47TB LEAK SHOWS YEARS OF ABUSE”

BBC: “VICTIMS ARE MODELS, RICH KIDS, RUNAWAYS—WORLD AUCTION SYSTEM BROKEN”

Vice: “THE GHOST STAR WHO TOOK DOWN THE CARTERS”

My face—from the pool, water on lips, eyes wide after everything—was on screens everywhere, from New York to Tokyo. I looked like a story. Like a danger sign.

I shut the laptop. The radiator made noise. A siren passed outside, lights flashing red-blue on the alley, then gone.

R called secure at 03:00.

“Seraphina’s jet stopped in Teterboro—customs found $3M in bonds and a drive ‘L.M. – FINAL CUT’. Damian in cuffs at the Hamptons house. Board breaking: one dead in Singapore—hung from light, note in another language; two caught in Dubai—diamonds in a toy. Stock down 42%. Move now.”

“How long until they find me?”

“Forty-eight hours best. Twelve if smart. Break the laptop. New SIM. 05:47 bus to Québec City—ticket under Élise Gagnon in station locker 217. Hood up. Cash.”

I moved fast. Smashed the laptop with a hammer from the landlord’s tools—screen broke, plastic cracked loud. Took out the drive, crushed it under my foot, melted pieces in a pot on the stove—flame made plastic bubble and smoke, room smelled bad. Opened the window; cold wind pulled smoke out, snow came in like small white bits.

Ran down stairs. Madame Duval slept in her chair, TV selling a blender. Left the key on the counter, went out the back.

The 05:47 bus smelled wet and clean. Paid with twenties, took seat 28C by window, hood up, cap low. Bus started, tires on wet snow, city lights blurred. I slept a little—dreams of red ribbons, pool lights, Seraphina’s laugh in a glass room.

By noon, Carter company was losing bad. Hamptons house full: FBI jackets, police blocks, news trucks on the drive, drones flying. Live video showed Damian in cuffs outside the studio—hair messy, face hard, led to a car. Seraphina pictured in Teterboro—sunglasses, red lips, smiling like a show.

I changed buses in Drummondville—small stop, less people. Then Sherbrooke, got on another coach with sticky seats. Every TV showed the same: my face, red ribbon, auction at $500K – SOLD. Comments everywhere—hero, bad words, fake videos, more bounty.

At 22:14, R texted from new number:

Mom’s house in Queens burned—on purpose. She’s safe with feds, new name, new place. Montréal spot bad. Drone over street at 21:47—heat camera. Go north. NOW.

Night bus to Gaspé—six hours along cold peninsula, river black under stars. Driver with rough beard took cash, no talk. I sat back, hood up, watched snowy trees, rare truck lights.

In Gaspé, paid $800 Canadian to a boat captain—Le Saint-Pierre, 42 feet, patched hull—for Magdalen Islands. Boat smelled fuel and fish; deck icy. I stood inside as we moved through dark water, land lights gone, wind sharp, salt on lips. Captain gave coffee in metal cup—black, strong, hot. I drank.

Down below, under light, opened R’s last envelope—red wax, anchor mark. Inside: small memory card and note in his writing:

Spot: 25.0761° N, 77.3205° W. Private island, not on maps. Carter hideout. They’ll go there. End it. Burn after.

Put card in old tablet from Gaspé shop. One video: “DAMIAN_BACKDOOR.mp4”.

Hidden camera in Hamptons bedroom. Damian and Seraphina after sex, sheets messy, fire low. She touched his chest.

“Let her run. Getting her back is better. Three parts in Nassau—same buyers, more money.”

He laughed, held her. “Ghost Star: Escape. Recapture. Reclaimed. She’ll beg.”

Seraphina smiled mean. “High quality. Big tears.”

Boat moved. I deleted video, broke card, dropped pieces in ocean.

Morning in Magdalen Islands motel—Le Motel du Havre, old flower walls, loud radiator, view of frozen sand. TV on CBC: “CARTERS GONE—SEARCH FOR YACHT ‘SILKEN COMMAND’”. Pictures showed big yacht in Bahamas water, going to hidden island south of Exuma—no signal, just gone.

Opened clean laptop from shop. One secure email: [e-mail]

Nassau. Bring camera. End the story. –R

Snow fell outside—quiet, covering everything. I booked flight to Miami as Élise Gagnon—Air Canada, cheap seat, cash at local agency. Then small plane to Nassau, smelled fuel and sick. No bags. Just fake passport, prepaid card, and a black camera bought in Montréal with R’s money—quiet click, my new tool.

The Carters saw me as the hunted.

They forgot: I learned from them.

And now, I had the camera.