Chapter 7: The Confrontation in the Alley
Before Julian could argue further, Vance slipped into the shadows, moving with a surprising, fluid stealth for a man of his bulk. Julian knelt beside the bassinet, shielding the infant’s face from the cold mist with his own body. His hands shook as he adjusted the white cotton blanket around the baby’s chest. The reality of what they were doing—running from his own father, allied with an ex-con fighting for his family—began to settle over him like lead weight.
Fifty yards away, the sleek black sedan sat idling beside a row of commercial dumpsters. The driver’s window rolled down an inch, letting a thin wisp of cigarette smoke drift out into the damp night air. Henderson, a professional corporate fixer whose face was shadowed by the brim of a fedora, tapped his ash against the window frame.
Vance stepped out from the shelter of the brick wall directly into the vehicle’s headlights, his massive frame blocking the sedan's path. Henderson cursed softly under his breath, shifting the gear into drive, but before he could press the accelerator, Vance’s heavy hand slammed down onto the hood with a metallic boom that echoed down the narrow alley.
“Cut the engine, Henderson,” Vance said, his voice carrying an effortless, bone-chilling authority.
Henderson blinked behind his tinted glasses, recognizing the tattooed arms and the black leather jacket from the security dossiers Sterling’s office circulated. He reached slowly toward the glove compartment, his fingers brushing against the cold steel of a permitted sidearm.
“I wouldn't do that,” Vance warned softly, stepping closer and gripping the top of the driver’s side window frame. With a sudden, explosive jerk of his arms, Vance tore the sliding glass track right out of the door frame, showering the interior with tiny plastic splinters and shattered safety glass.
Henderson froze, his hand pulling away from the glove box as empty shards rained over his lap. Sweat beaded on the fixer’s forehead despite the freezing air. “Vance. You’re violating the terms of the settlement. Sterling will bury you.”
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“Sterling is currently picking glass out of his suit in Room 304,” Vance replied, reaching through the broken window and unlocking the door from the inside. He pulled the door open with a firm yank and hauled Henderson out by his expensive silk tie, pinning him effortlessly against the side of the car. “Now, give me the keys to this heap, and tell my father-in-law that his delivery service is officially canceled.”
Henderson gasped for air, his toes barely touching the slick pavement. He nodded frantically, digging his free hand into his coat pocket and pulling out a heavy brass key ring. Vance snatched the keys, gave Henderson one final, warning shove that sent the fixer sprawling backward into a pile of cardboard recycling boxes, and turned back toward the bakery doorway.
