Chapter 4 - The Wings of Saint Jude
The roaring thump of helicopter blades rattled the stained-glass windows of Blackwoods.
Across the street, in the center of the public park, a sleek, matte-black medical helicopter touched down on the wet grass, its floodlights cutting through the driving rain.
Inside the restaurant, Karl and two tactical medics gently lifted the mastiff onto a specialized carbon-fiber stretcher. Buster let out a soft groan, but his eyes remained calm as Vance laid his hand on the dog's chest during the lift.
"Easy, boy," Vance murmured. "You're safe now."
Vance turned back to the floor.
Molly was still on her knees, trying to stand up, her hand pressed tightly against her left ribcage. Her face was dangerously pale, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. Every time she tried to straighten her spine, a sharp, white-hot knife of pain shot through her side.
"Don't move," Vance said, kneeling beside her once more.
Before Molly could speak or pull away, Vance reached down, scooped her up into his arms, and lifted her off the floor as easily as if she were made of feathers.
Molly gasped, her small hands instinctively catching the lapels of his dark charcoal coat. "Mr. Vance... no, please... I can walk... my apron is dirty, I'm getting blood on your suit—"
"Be quiet, Molly," Vance said, his voice holding a strange, rough softness that caught her completely off guard. "You haven't breathed properly in ten minutes. Stop worrying about my suit."
He carried her out of the shattered front doors of Blackwoods into the cold night air.
The rain washed over her face, cooling her burning skin. Surrounding the restaurant were twelve black SUVs, their emergency lights flashing quietly, blocking off the entire street. Passersby stood behind police tape at the edge of the block, staring in utter disbelief as the most feared man in Harrow Falls walked out of the city's most expensive restaurant, carrying a blood-stained waitress in his arms toward a private helicopter.
"Mr. Vance," Molly whispered, her head resting against his chest, hearing the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart beneath his wool coat. "Is Buster going to be okay?"
Vance stopped near the open door of the helicopter, where the rotors whipped the rain into a white mist around them.
He looked down at her. Her dark eyes were filled with genuine, unselfish worry—not for her broken ribs, not for her lost job, not for the terrifying display of power she had just witnessed, but for his dog.
"He's going to live, Molly," Vance said softly. "Because you didn't let go of him."
He climbed into the cabin of the aircraft, placing her gently onto a heated medical gurney beside Buster’s stretcher. A team of three private flight surgeons immediately moved in, attaching heart monitors, IV lines, and pulse oximeters to both the mastiff and the girl.
As the helicopter lifted off from the park, rising above the glowing city lights of Harrow Falls, Molly looked out the window. Down below, she could see the tiny, distant front of Blackwoods, surrounded by flashing lights, and two figures—Dylan Burroughs and Libby Kemp—standing on the wet sidewalk in the rain, stripped of their power, their pride, and their future.
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Molly closed her eyes as the IV medication began to take hold, warm numbness spreading through her chest, washing away the terrible pain in her ribs.
The last thing she felt before she drifted into sleep was a large, warm, scarred hand gently closing over her small fingers.
