Chapter 13: The Heavy Footsteps
The rhythmic clicking of heavy shoes outside the door grew louder, pausing just inches from the threshold. Julian’s breath caught in his throat. He looked down at Lily, who was still clinging desperately to his waist, her small shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
“Get under the bed, Lily. Quickly!” Julian whispered urgently, using his hip to nudge her toward the narrow gap beneath the metal frame.
“No, Daddy, I want to stay with you!” Lily cried, her grip tightening.
“Listen to me!” Julian hissed, his voice cracking with a fierce, protective terror. “Hide! Now!”
Reluctantly, the little girl scrambled backward, squeezing her small body into the dark shadows beneath the metal medical bed, pulling her knees tight against her chest. Just as her pink dress disappeared from view, the heavy metal door swung open.
It wasn't the doctor, and it wasn't Clara.
It was the scar-faced man from the parking garage. His dark suit jacket was unbuttoned, revealing a heavy leather shoulder holster tucked snugly beneath his arm. His expression was completely blank, his eyes scanning the sterile green room with practiced indifference until they landed on Julian.
The man took two slow steps inside, his gaze dropping momentarily to the empty cardboard box sitting on the floor—and then to the white orthopedic leg brace lying beside it. A subtle twitch of irritation crossed his scarred jawline.
“Looks like the package unpacked itself prematurely,” the scar-faced man said, his voice flat and devoid of any human emotion. He reached into his jacket, his hand resting casually near the grip of his firearm.
Julian strained against the leather restraints on the bed, his muscles locked in pure, defensive tension.
“Where is Clara?” Julian demanded, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and terror. “Did she really think she could just dump a child in a mental asylum and walk away with two million dollars?”
The scar-faced man didn't answer immediately. He walked slowly toward the bed, his oxblood shoes clicking against the linoleum floor. He stopped just out of reach, looking down at Julian with a cold, calculating stare.
“Mrs. Vance is currently boarding a private jet bound for Zurich,” the man replied smoothly. “By the time Interpol realizes the funds in the Cayman accounts were flagged for domestic financial fraud, she’ll have a new passport, a new identity, and a beach house in the Mediterranean.”
Julian let out a bitter, humorless laugh that tasted like ash in his mouth.
“You think she’s going to pay you?” Julian mocked, his eyes blazing. “Clara doesn't care about anyone except herself. The moment you became a liability, she’ll cut you loose just like she cut us loose.”
The scar-faced man’s expression darkened instantly. He took a sharp step forward, his hand tightening around the grip of his gun.
“Watch your mouth, Mr. Vance,” the man warned, his voice dropping to a low, threatening growl. “My payment cleared an hour ago. You and the kid are just loose ends that need tying up before the facility staff changes shifts at dawn.”
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Julian’s heart hammered against his ribs like a sledgehammer. Tying up loose ends. They weren't just locking him away; they were going to silence them both permanently.
The scar-faced man slowly unsnapped the leather strap of his holster, his fingers wrapping around the cold steel of the pistol inside. He turned his head slightly, his eyes scanning the dark corners of the room—and then dropping toward the narrow gap beneath the medical bed.
