The Hunt Begins

The sun was dipping low by the time Lex's car pulled up in front of the Latham brownstone. Lex stepped out, rolling his shoulders. Jason and Noah were already waiting.

"This better not be a goddamn waste of time, Latham," Jason said, pushing off the car with a lazy stretch.

Lex smirked, jingling the house keys. "Come on, Jason, when have I ever wasted your time?"

Jason snorted. "You want that alphabetically or chronologically?"

Beside him, Noah Carter stood dressed in all black, already setting up his gear with Wes, his cinematographer. Noah had the sharp-eyed focus of a director already envisioning the final cut.

"You really wanna film this?" Noah asked, adjusting his camera settings.

Lex pushed open the heavy oak door to the brownstone. "If we find what I think we will, this is worth more than a film."

Noah and Wes started checking angles, testing the low light. "Where are we starting?" Noah asked.

Lex paused, glancing around. The study? The attic? No.

"The basement."

Jason groaned. "Of-fucking-course it's the basement."

Lex raised an eyebrow. "Problem?"

Jason threw up his hands. "Yeah, Latham, there's a problem. You ever see a horror movie? You know where shit goes wrong? The goddamn basement."

Lex chuckled, walking toward the door. "Relax. It's just storage."

Jason muttered, "That's what they say before the guy in the mask shows up."

Noah smirked, lifting his camera. "I'll make sure to get your final moments in 4K."

Jason shot him a glare. "Ha ha. Real funny."

Lex ignored them and pulled open the basement door.

The stairwell was narrow and steep, leading down into the kind of cold, still air that came from years of untouched space. Lex flicked the switch—dim yellow lights flickered to life, revealing rows of wooden shelves stacked with crates, old storage boxes, and metal filing cabinets.

Jason squinted. "Man, this place is a whole-ass museum."

Lex walked deeper, scanning the labels on the boxes. His father had been meticulous—each box had a handwritten tag.

Then, he saw it.

A row of crates, stacked neatly against the back wall.

RADIO JAZZ ARCHIVES.

Lex exhaled sharply. "Bingo."

Jason walked up, brushing dust off one of the crates. "Tell me this ain't just old-ass tax records."

Lex grabbed a box cutter, slicing through the aging tape.

The flaps peeled back, revealing—

Stacks of reel-to-reel tapes.

Noah's camera zoomed in as Jason pulled out one reel, turning it over in his hands. The label was yellowed with age, but the handwriting was clear.

Live Recording – Miles Davis (Unreleased Session), 1973.

Jason froze. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"Latham," he finally said. "You better tell me I ain't seeing what I'm seeing."

Lex's black eyes gleamed.

"Oh, you're seeing it."

Jason sucked in a sharp breath. "This is fucking history."

Lex reached into the crate, pulling out another reel.

Ella Fitzgerald – Live Session, 1968 (Unpublished).

Jason staggered back. "You gotta be shitting me."

Lex flipped open another box. Then another.

John Coltrane. Thelonious Monk. Louis Armstrong. Duke Ellington.

Stacks upon stacks of tapes, untouched, hidden for decades.

Jason ran a hand through his hair, pacing for a second before turning back. "Lex. If these recordings are what I think they are, we're talking about lost jazz history. Not just rare tracks—music that was never supposed to be found."

Lex exhaled slowly, brushing the dust off another box.

"My father wasn't just buying a radio station," he murmured. "He was collecting time itself."

Noah adjusted his camera. "We're documenting every second of this," he said. "People need to see how we found this."

Lex nodded. "Agreed. But until we know what's in these recordings, this doesn't leave the room."

Jason blew out a breath, still holding the Miles Davis reel. "Jesus. This is gonna change everything."

Lex smirked. "Yeah," he murmured, his fingers tracing the old labels.

Lex flicked open another crate, the aged wood creaking slightly under his hands. Dust rose into the dim basement air as he peeled back the flaps, revealing more reel-to-reel tapes, neatly stacked like they had been waiting for someone to find them.

Jason hovered over his shoulder, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "C'mon, c'mon, let's see what else we got."

Lex smirked, pulling out the top reel. He turned it toward the light, reading the label.

Ray Charles – Unreleased Blues Session, 1965.

Jason let out a sharp whistle. "Ray-fucking-Charles? Latham, are you serious right now?"

Lex flipped the reel over, confirming the handwritten note. "Recorded at Radio Jazz Studios. Never Broadcast."

Jason grabbed at his own hair. "Latham, do you get what this means? This ain't just old tapes—this is history that got locked in a goddamn basement."

Noah had his camera zoomed in, recording every detail. "You realize if this footage leaks, the entire music industry is gonna lose its mind."

Lex's smirk widened. "Let's make sure we own every piece of it first."

He pulled out another reel.

Nina Simone – Unpublished Performance, 1971.

Jason let out a choked laugh. "I swear to God, Lex, if you pull out a Sinatra next, I'm walking into traffic."

Lex chuckled, but he was laser-focused. His father had locked away a fortune in music rights, and no one—not even Barnie—had touched it.

Lex reached for another crate, cracking it open. This time, instead of reel-to-reel tapes, he found old vinyl test pressings.

The first sleeve had a bold red sticker across the front.

LOUIS ARMSTRONG – NEVER RELEASED.

Jason actually stumbled backward. "Latham. What the actual fuck."

Lex ran his fingers over the edge of the vinyl sleeve, his mind already spinning with possibilities.

His father hadn't just bought a radio station.

He had built a vault of lost sound.

Jason clapped his hands together. "Alright, I take back everything I said about coming down here. You just became the goddamn king of jazz."

Lex smirked, but his mind was already a step ahead.

This wasn't just about music.

This was about control.

And now?

Lex had all the power.