Chapter 2 - The Name on the Collar
The heavy glass front doors of Blackwoods didn't open; they were shattered off their brass hinges.
A shower of glass rained down across the foyer host stand, sparkling like broken ice under the chandeliers. Before Steven the manager could even let out a yell, six men in dark, tactical urban gear stepped through the frame. They didn't carry handguns or restaurant security badges. They carried suppressed automatic rifles held at low-ready, their faces covered by black ballistic masks.
They moved with absolute, military efficiency, instantly flanking the entryways, securing the windows, and blocking every exit to the East Dining Room.
A high-pitched scream ripped from one of the women at the head table. Several men jumped up from their chairs, knocking over crystal glasses and wine bottles.
"What is the meaning of this?!" Dylan Burroughs roared, standing up, his face flushing dark red as he reached toward his jacket pocket for his concealed firearm.
"I wouldn't touch that piece in your jacket, Burroughs," a voice echoed from the shattered foyer.
The voice was low, flat, and carried a terrible, icy weight that made the air in the room drop ten degrees.
The tactical men parted, stepping back to form a disciplined aisle.
A man walked into the light of the East Dining Room.
He was in his late thirties, built broad and tall, wearing a charcoal wool coat over a dark suit with no tie. His dark hair was short, silver tracing his temples. His face looked as though it had been carved from marble by someone who only knew how to sculpt weapons. But it was his eyes that froze every person in the room—they were a pale, striking gray, completely devoid of fear, devoid of warmth, and filled with a cold, calculating fury that made Dylan Burroughs’ guards instantly freeze in place.
Victor Vance.
The room gasped.
In Harrow Falls, Dylan Burroughs was a dangerous man. But Victor Vance was the shadow that covered the entire state. Vance didn't run front companies or host flashy engagement dinners. He owned the shipping yards, the railways, the private security firms, and three separate international freight lines. For the last four days, the entire city had been in a quiet, terrifying lockdown because Vance’s private estate had been breached, and something invaluable had been taken from him.
Victor Vance walked down the center aisle of the East Dining Room. He didn't look at Dylan Burroughs. He didn't look at Libby Kemp. He didn't look at the crystal chandeliers or the orchids.
His pale gray eyes fell directly on the floor near the service station.
On the girl in the faded black apron, lying in a pool of rainwater and blood, shielding the fawn-colored mastiff with her body.
"Buster," Vance said softly.
The moment the name left Vance's lips, the dying dog’s ears twitched.
The mastiff let out a weak, raspy whimper. With the last reserve of his failing strength, the giant dog lifted his head from Molly’s chest, his graying muzzle trembling as he looked toward the sound of the man's voice.
Vance stopped in his tracks.
For four days, Victor Vance had burned through three private security firms, raided four rival warehouses, and put twenty people in the hospital looking for the dog his late wife had given him before she passed away three years ago. Buster wasn't just a pet; he was the last living piece of Vance's humanity. A rival crew had stolen the dog from the estate grounds, stripped his collar, and left him for dead in an alley when they realized they couldn't ransom him without Vance hunting them to the ends of the earth.
Vance walked over to the floor. He dropped to his knees—unmindful of his ten-thousand-dollar suit, unmindful of the blood and dirt on the floorboards.
He laid a large, scarred hand gently over the mastiff’s head.
"I've got you, boy," Vance whispered, his voice trembling slightly—a sound none of his men had ever heard in his entire life. "I've got you. You're home."
The dog licked Vance’s palm once, weakly, then let his head drop back onto Molly’s knee, resting his snout against her small hand.
Vance looked down at the mastiff's flank. He saw the torn skin, the dirt... and then he saw the distinct, fresh print of a red high-heeled shoe bruised deeply into the ribs of the young woman curled beneath him.
Vance slowly turned his head.
He looked at Molly Lane.
Her face was pale, sweat pasting dark strands of hair to her forehead. Her lip was bleeding where she had bitten it to keep from screaming. Her black apron was soaked in blood and water, but her arms were still wrapped tightly around the dog's neck, refusing to let go.
"Did he bite you, child?" Vance asked softly, his pale gray eyes searching her face.
Molly swallowed hard, her chest burning with every ragged breath. "No... sir. He... he came to the back door. He was cold. He was hurting. I was just... trying to get him to the vet..."
Vance stared at her. He looked at her worn shoes, her name tag that read Molly, and the dark red bruise spreading across her side where the steel heel had struck her.
"You held him," Vance said. "You took a blow for him."
"He's a good dog," Molly whispered, her eyes heavy with pain. "He didn't deserve to be kicked."
A silence descended on the room so heavy that the flickering of the candles sounded like thunder.
Vance stood up.
May you like
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't pull a weapon. He simply turned around to face the horseshoe table, his charcoal coat shifting slightly as he folded his hands in front of him.
"Which one of you," Vance asked, his voice low and pleasant, "put your foot on this girl?"
