Chapter 6 - The Manhasset Clinic And The Trail Of Blood
The heavy mahogany doors of the security control room slammed shut behind me as I strode out into the dimly lit hallway, my hand resting firmly on the grip of my Smith & Wesson revolver.
Anthony Vance.
For eight years, he had sat across from me in this very mansion, pouring over contracts, advising me on corporate acquisitions, and nodding with sympathetic sorrow whenever Isabelle’s name was mentioned.
He had attended her funeral.
He had shaken my hand, looked me in the eyes, and whispered words of comfort while knowing full well that he was the architect of my family's nightmare.
The betrayal tasted like ash and copper in my mouth.
My phone buzzed aggressively against my thigh.
I pulled it out, flicked the screen open, and saw a secure text message from Marcus.
Boss, we pinged Anthony Vance’s corporate cell phone. Last known signal was traced three miles from his primary residence in Manhasset. But local units just reported an abandoned black sedan matching the description of the getaway car off Northern Boulevard. It's soaked in blood.
“He’s injured, Marcus,” I said, lifting the phone to my ear as I broke into a fast, purposeful walk toward the underground garage. “A bullet wound to the torso or limb. He’s not going to walk into a major hospital emergency room. Check every underground clinic, every cosmetic surgery center, and every back-alley doctor from here to Queens.”
“Already on it, Mr. Romano,” Marcus’s voice crackled through the encrypted speaker. “I’ve got three teams sweeping the private medical practices in Manhasset and Great Neck right now. We’ll find him.”
“Make sure you do,” I hissed, pulling open the heavy steel door leading down to the garage. “And Marcus? If anyone tries to interfere—police, local authorities, anybody—you remind them whose payroll they’re actually on.”
“Understood, Boss. Twenty minutes.”
I disconnected the call, slipped into the driver’s seat of my matte-black Mercedes-AMG, and pushed the start button.
The twin-turbo V8 engine roared to life with a deep, menacing growl that rattled the concrete walls of the underground garage.
I shifted the transmission into drive, slammed my foot down on the accelerator, and shot out of the subterranean exit into the freezing Long Island night, tires screaming against the wet asphalt.
The rain was still driving sideways, lashing against the windshield in violent, blinding sheets, but I didn't ease up on the gas.
My mind was entirely consumed by a single, burning objective: finding Anthony Vance.
Twenty minutes later, the Mercedes slid smoothly into an unpaved alleyway behind a nondescript brick medical building in downtown Manhasset—a sleepy, upscale commercial strip that catered to wealthy residents who preferred their medical treatments off the official public record.
Parked near the rear delivery entrance was a familiar silver Audi A8.
Anthony’s car.
The driver’s side door was slightly ajar, and a dark crimson smear stained the exterior handle.
I cut the engine, plunged the car into darkness, and drew my revolver, checking the cylinder one last time before slipping out into the freezing rain.
The alleyway smelled of rotting garbage, wet pavement, and the sharp, metallic tang of fresh blood.
I moved forward like a ghost, keeping my back pressed flat against the rough brick wall of the medical building, stepping over deep puddles without making a sound.
The rear metal delivery door was propped open by a rubber doorstop.
From inside, I could hear a muffled, agonized groan, followed by the sound of medical instruments clinking against a stainless-steel tray.
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I reached the doorway, pivoting sharply around the frame with my revolver raised and ready.
“Don't move!” I commanded, the words snapping like a whip through the sterile white examination room.
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