All Chapters of The Debt Collector's Price: Chapter 101 - Chapter 110

ISLA'S POVJanuary 21, 2026. 6:47 AM.Thirty thousand feet over the Atlantic, the air is recycled and dry, humming with the monotonous drone of turbine engines.I am wedged into a window seat in the back row, staring at the banking app on my phone until the numbers blur.Balance: $10.77.In my jacket pocket, pressing against my ribs, is a deed to a fifty-acre island worth millions. A piece of land that could buy this plane.But I can’t buy a sandwich from the galley cart.The paradox sits heavy in my stomach, tasting like exhaustion and copper. I fold the deed tighter, feeling the sharp crease of the paper, and shove it back into my pocket.

ISLA'S POVJanuary 21, 2026. 5:47 PM.The street cart on 44th and Lexington smells of burnt sugar and exhaust.I hand the vendor three singles, the paper grimy against my gloves. He counts out fifty cents in change and drops the quarters into my palm.Black coffee. Two dollars and fifty cents. The same order I've been making for five years, but today the transaction feels final.I check my phone, the screen dim in the twilight.Balance: $8.27.I’m leaving New York the same way I entered it: financially stripped, armed only with intellect.I take the coffee, the heat seeping through the cardboard cup, and walk toward Hunt Capital headquarters.

GABRIEL'S POVJanuary 22, 2026. 10:07 AM.The tarmac at Teterboro vibrates under the soles of my boots, a low-frequency hum generated by the Aegis transport plane idling fifty feet away.The air smells of kerosene and impending rain. I stand at the base of the extended loading ramp, watching the logistics team wrestle the last of the modular server units into the cargo hold. They are heavy crates, reinforced steel housings for the climate-controlled servers and satellite uplinks that represent the only future Hunt Capital has left.We are shipping the company’s brain in boxes.My phone buzzes against my hip. A text from Isla.Leaving federal building now. ETA 15 minutes.

ISLA'S POVJanuary 22, 2026. 5:47 PM.The modular command center smells like sawdust and ozone.It’s barely a building yet—just a steel skeleton wrapped in plywood and Tyvek, vibrating with the aggressive hum of a diesel generator outside. I’m standing in what the blueprints label the "Executive Suite," but right now, it’s a freezing box with exposed wiring hanging from the ceiling like guts.Commander Travis Drax stands across from me. He’s the Aegis Security lead, a man who wears silence like armor. Ex-Special Forces, fifteen years in the private sector. He doesn’t ask questions for the contracted rate, but I need something the standard contract doesn't cover.I reach into my bag. My fingers brush the cold, dense metal of the bars I took from the farmhouse floor.I pull one out. One kilogram of gold.I set it on the makeshift plywood table. It hits with a heavy, dull thud that seems to suck the air out of the room. Swiss assay mark stamped into the face. Worth approximately $65,000.

ISLA'S POVJanuary 23, 2026. 2:07 AM.The modular command center is a freezer box with plywood walls.There is no heat yet, only the harsh, buzzing glare of generator-powered work lights that make everything look jaundice-yellow. I’m huddled in my jacket, trying to type, but my fingers are stiff blocks of ice.Gabriel enters. He doesn't knock, just pushes through the temporary door.His face is the color of ash. His hands are shaking—a fine, high-frequency tremor that has nothing to do with the temperature."You need to see something," he says, his voice rough.I stand up, my knees cracking in the cold. "What did you find?"