Chapter 4 - The Bloodhound of the Docks
The hallway air smelled of bleach, wet fur, and the cold ozone of approaching thunder.
Julian moved with terrifying economy.
He wrapped Violet in Camille’s discarded green scrub coat, supporting her sagging hindquarters with one forearm so her diaphragm took no direct pressure.
The cat buried her blunt muzzle against Julian's neck, breathing in small, whistling gasps.
Dante vanished down the service corridor first, clearing the corners like an operative clearing an ambush site.
Camille took a deep, steadying breath, smoothed down the front of her spare navy scrub top, and shoved through the swinging doors into the reception lobby.
Marcus Vance stood by the intake desk, his camel-hair coat unbuttoned to reveal an impeccably tailored navy three-piece suit.
He was in his late thirties, possessing the kind of sharp, symmetrical patrician good looks that curdled when he stopped smiling.
Behind him stood two private security guards in slate-gray suits, their hands folded low in front of their belts.
"Where is the overnight veterinarian?" Marcus was saying to the terrified twenty-year-old receptionist.
"I am Dr. Hart," Camille announced, stepping forward with deliberate, clinical indifference.
"And you are trespassing in a private surgical facility during active intake."
Marcus turned, his eyes taking in her disheveled hair, the smudge of coal dust on her forearm, and the cold lack of deference in her posture.
A thin smile touched his lips.
"Dr. Camille Hart. Chief of Staff for the night shift."
"Identify your animal or leave the building, sir."
Marcus pulled a leather glove off his right hand, finger by finger.
"I'm not looking for an animal, Doctor. I'm looking for an acquaintance."
"This is an animal hospital. We don't board executives."
"Julian Moretti was seen turning his Mercedes into your south alley eight minutes ago."
Marcus stepped closer, the rich smell of amber cologne and expensive tobacco rolling off him.
"He is in possession of private property belonging to the Vance estate."
"Mr. Moretti came through those doors fifteen minutes ago with a severely mangled stray," Camille lied without batting an eyelid.
"A stray?"
"Hit by a garbage truck on Fifth Avenue."
She pointed toward the closed metal door of the biohazard disposal room at the end of the hall.
"He left when I informed him the animal was dead on arrival."
Marcus tilted his head.
"Really? Julian Moretti, playing Good Samaritan for roadkill?"
"You'll have to ask him about his hobbies."
Marcus motioned to one of his guards.
"Check the rooms."
Camille stepped squarely into the guard’s path.
She did not back down an inch.
"If that man crosses the red line on the floor, I am hitting the silent security panic button under that desk."
"My dear Dr. Hart—"
"That button does not summon the county police, Mr. Vance," Camille cut in, her voice freezing the room.
"It trips the fire alarm and dispatches the federal hazardous chemical response unit, because we store fifty liters of liquid nitrogen and compressed halothane gas in the surgical sub-basement."
Marcus stopped.
His guard paused, looking back at his employer for orders.
"You think I care about a local chemical inspection?" Marcus murmured.
"I think you care about OSHA and the State Board shutting down your pending terminal expansion if news leaks that your armed bodyguards contaminated an accredited surgical ward," Camille replied smoothly.
"The press loves an eccentric billionaire bullying night-shift doctors."
Marcus’s smile vanished completely.
For three agonizing seconds, Camille saw the butcher behind the corporate pedigree—the man who could order a car run off a bridge and sleep through the night.
"You are very clever, Dr. Hart."
"I have a medical degree, Mr. Vance. It requires a baseline of intelligence."
Marcus slowly put his leather glove back on.
"If Julian Moretti brings anything of mine into this clinic, and you assist him in concealing it, you will find that medical licenses are remarkably fragile pieces of paper."
"Have a safe night, Mr. Vance."
Marcus held her stare for another heartbeat, then turned sharply on his heel.
"Let's go," he snapped at his men.
"Check the perimeter roads. He couldn't have gotten far on foot."
The glass doors swung shut behind them.
Camille leaned against the high reception desk until the trembling in her fingers subsided.
May you like
She waited forty seconds, ensuring the taillights of Marcus’s black SUV pulled out onto the main boulevard.
Then she turned toward the back hall, unlocked the heavy fire door leading to the basement oxygen bunker, and stepped down into the dark.
