Chapter 37: The Search for Vargas

The road to Lake Placid was a gray tunnel of sleet and pine. Elena’s hands were rigid on the wheel, her knuckles white peaks against the dark leather. The burner phone sat silent on the passenger seat, a plastic brick of potential doom.

*Righteousness doesn't pay tuition.*

The words echoed in the small cabin of the Subaru. Julianne wasn't just cruel; she was precise. She knew exactly where to strike. She knew Elena had spent fifteen years balancing the books, sacrificing her own dreams to keep Mia’s alive. She knew Elena valued stability above all else.

But Julianne had miscalculated. She thought Elena was stable because she was weak. She didn't realize that stability was just another form of control.

And Elena was done being controlled.

She needed more than rage. She needed information. If she was going to walk into Blackwood—a fortress built for a cartel king—she needed to know who she was fighting. Not just the monster in the suit, but the history that created him.

She waited for a straight stretch of highway, then grabbed the phone. One hand on the wheel, one hand typing.

*Google Search: Vargas Europe 2002.*

The same search she had run days ago. But this time, she wasn't looking for a birth date. She was looking for a pattern.

The results were a wall of noise. Financial scandals. interpol notices. Rumors of money laundering through high-end art galleries.

*Art galleries.*

Elena tapped the link. *Zurich Gallery Raided in Connection to Cartel Financing. 2003.*

The gallery was called *L’Miroir*. The Mirror.

The owner wasn't listed. But the manager was.

*Julia Vane.*

Elena’s breath hitched. Julia Vane. Julianne’s alias.

She scrolled down. There was a grainy photo of the raid. Police carrying out boxes of files. And in the background, a woman being escorted into a police car. She had her head down, her face obscured by a scarf. But the coat—a long, distinctive trench coat—was identical to the one Julianne was wearing at the airport.

But there was something else.

Standing in the doorway of the gallery, watching the arrest, was a man.

Not Vargas.

Mark.

He wasn't being arrested. He was talking to the police. He was pointing at the woman in the car.

Elena swerved, nearly hitting the guardrail. She corrected, her heart pounding.

Mark hadn't just been a bystander. He hadn't just been a weak brother helping his sister out of a jam.

He had been the informant.

She looked at the date of the article. *February 14, 2003.*

The same date she had put on the fake death certificate. The date Sarah Vance supposedly died.

Mark had turned his "wife"—or the woman playing her—in to the authorities. He had traded her freedom for his own.

But if Julia was arrested in February... how was she pregnant in April?

Elena scrolled further.

*Charges Dropped Against Gallery Manager Due to Lack of Evidence. Key Witness Disappears.*

The witness was Mark. He had disappeared into the "year in Europe."

He hadn't saved Julianne. He had betrayed her, then saved her, then leveraged her. It was a cycle of mutual destruction that had lasted twenty years.

And now he was doing it again. To Mia.

Elena looked at the road. The snow was falling harder now, big wet flakes that stuck to the windshield.

She needed to know more about Vargas. If he was dying, if he was desperate enough to harvest his own daughter, he was vulnerable.

She typed *Gabriel Vargas Medical History*.

Nothing. Privacy laws, even for criminals.

She tried *Vargas Bone Marrow*.

A forum result popped up. *The Lazarus Project: Rumors of cartel bosses funding illegal organ harvesting in Eastern Europe.*

She clicked it.

The thread was a mess of conspiracy theories and dark web links. But one user, *TruthSeeker99*, had posted a list of "suspected clients."

*G.V. - Brazil/Zurich. Acute Myeloid Leukemia. Diagnosed 2002.*

2002. The year Mark and Julianne went to Europe. The year Mia was conceived.

Vargas hadn't wanted an heir. He had wanted a spare part from the beginning. Mia was never meant to be a daughter. She was meant to be a biological backup drive.

Elena felt a cold fury settle in her stomach. It was heavier than the fear.

She wasn't just fighting for Mia's future. She was fighting for her life.

She threw the phone back onto the seat. She pressed the accelerator.

The sign for Lake Placid flashed past. *20 Miles.*

She was close.

But she wasn't alone.

In the rearview mirror, two headlights appeared. Bright. High.

A black SUV. Not a sedan. An Escalade.

It was moving fast. Too fast for the weather.

It pulled into the left lane, pulling up beside her.

Elena looked over. The windows were tinted black. She couldn't see the driver.

But she saw the passenger window roll down.

She saw the barrel of a gun.

She didn't think. She reacted.

She slammed on the brakes.

The SUV shot past her, the gunshot cracking the air but missing her tire.

Elena spun the wheel, skidding onto the shoulder. The Subaru shuddered, tires screaming on the ice, but she regained control.

She looked ahead. The SUV was braking, trying to turn around.

She didn't give them the chance. She floored it, shooting past them on the right, spraying them with slush.

She was in a race now. And she knew exactly where the finish line was.

Blackwood.