Chapter 4 - The Hunt for the Runaway
While Emma slept beneath the security of the Vance estate, a different kind of storm was brewing across the state line in New Jersey.
The Riverside Children’s Home was a dreary, gray brick building situated on the outskirts of a dying industrial town. To the public, it was a sanctuary for orphan children. To the children inside, it was a living hell managed by a tyrant.
Mr. Donald Peterson sat in his cluttered, dimly lit office, a half-empty glass of cheap whiskey on his desk. He was a large, sweaty man with thinning hair and a cruel, small mouth. He was furious. It had been three days since Emma had slipped through the basement window, and the local police had found absolutely nothing.
"Incompetent fools," Peterson muttered, slamming his fist onto the desk. If Emma talked to the wrong person, if she showed someone the bruises on her wrists, everything he had built—the state funding he embezzled, the dark secrets he kept in the basement—would come crashing down.
Suddenly, the lights in his office flickered and died.
Peterson blinked in the darkness. "What the hell? The breaker again?"
He stood up, grunting as he reached into his drawer for a flashlight. Before his fingers could wrap around the plastic casing, the heavy oak door of his office didn't just open—it exploded inward, splintering into jagged shards of wood under the force of a massive combat boot.
Peterson shrieked, dropping to his knees behind his desk as three figures moved into the room like shadows materialized from the dark. They wore black tactical gear, night-vision goggles, and carried suppressed submachine guns. They moved with absolute, terrifying silence.
Before Peterson could draw breath to scream for the night guard, a massive hand clad in Kevlar grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and hauled him over the desk as if he were a sack of laundry. He crashed hard onto the floor, his whiskey glass shattering beside his head.
A heavy boot planted itself firmly onto his chest, pinning him down, crushing his ribs until he could only gasp for air.
A fourth figure walked calmly through the shattered doorway. He didn't wear tactical gear. He wore a crisp, expensive Italian suit, his dark trench coat flowing behind him. It was Marcus Vance.
Marcus walked over to the desk, surveyed the messy paperwork with a look of profound disgust, and then turned his gaze down to the sweating, terrified man on the floor.
"Who... who are you?" Peterson gasped, his face turning purple under the weight of the boot. "The police? I didn't do anything! I'm a public servant!"
Marcus didn't answer immediately. He took a silver lighter from his pocket, sparked it, and lit a thin, dark cigar. He took a slow drag, blowing the blue smoke toward the ceiling.
"Donald Peterson," Marcus said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Born in 1978. Three counts of assault dismissed due to lack of evidence. Two investigations into misappropriation of state funds, buried by a cousin in the district attorney’s office."
Peterson’s eyes widened with sheer terror. "How... how do you know that?"
"I know everything," Marcus replied. He gestured slightly with his hand, and the soldier holding Peterson down increased the pressure. A loud crack echoed through the room as one of Peterson’s ribs fractured. The man let out a muffled scream of agony.
Marcus leaned down, his face inches from Peterson’s. The smell of expensive tobacco and expensive cologne filled the air, mixed with the metallic scent of pure violence.
"An eleven-year-old girl named Emma ran away from this facility three days ago," Marcus said softly. "Do you know where she is right now, Donald?"
"No! I swear to God, I don't!" Peterson wept. "She’s just an orphan! A runaway! She’s probably dead in a ditch somewhere!"
Marcus’s eyes darkened into pitch-black voids. "She is currently sleeping in a bed that costs more than this entire building, under my roof. Because last night, that little girl dove into a freezing ocean and saved my wife’s life while twenty grown men watched."
Peterson froze, his jaw dropping. "Your... your wife?"
"My name is Marcus Vance," the mob boss whispered.
The name hit Peterson like a physical blow. The color completely drained from his face, leaving him a pasty, trembling mess. Everyone on the East Coast knew the name Vance. They knew that the governors answered to him. They knew that people who crossed him simply ceased to exist.
"I... I didn't know," Peterson whimpered, tears of pure terror leaking from his eyes. "I swear, Mr. Vance, I didn't touch her! She’s a liar! She’s crazy!"
"My wife’s personal physician examined her," Marcus said, his voice dropping into a deadly whisper. "The marks on her body do not lie, Donald. And neither do I."
Marcus stood up, turning his back on the man. "Clean this place out," he ordered his men. "Every file, every hard drive, every scrap of evidence of what this monster has done to these children over the years. Call the state authorities—the ones on our payroll. Have this facility shut down by dawn. The remaining children are to be transferred to the St. Jude sanctuary in Manhattan. I will fund it personally."
"And him, boss?" the lead soldier asked, pointing his weapon at Peterson.
May you like
Marcus stopped at the doorway, looking back over his shoulder. The cigar smoke swirled around his head like a dark halo.
"Take him to the docks," Marcus said smoothly. "Let’s see how long he can survive underwater without a little girl to save him."
