Chapter 3 - The Master Key
Richard whimpered as the pressure on his wrist tightened. The arrogant heir who had been laughing with a glass of scotch two minutes ago was now sobbing, his knees pressed against the wet patio tiles.
"In... in my front coat pocket!" he cried out. "It's the silver key on the ring! Just don't let the dog bite me! Please!"
I reached into his tailored coat, pulled out the heavy brass key ring, and identified the industrial padlock key. With a swift twist, I forced Richard onto his stomach, pulled a heavy-duty tactical zip-tie from my jacket pocket, and bound his wrists behind his back.
I commanded the Cane Corso to guard him. "Bleib," I ordered. The 130-pound beast sat two inches from Richard's head, letting out a low, vibrating rumble whenever the young man tried to shift his legs.
I sprinted back into the freezing rain toward the dog kennel.
"Clara!" I called out, my heart pounding violently against my ribs.
"Dad..." her voice was barely an audible rasp. She was shivering so violently her teeth clicked together, her skin pale and blue against the rusted chain-link.
I shoved the silver key into the padlock, turned it until it popped open with a heavy metallic click, and threw the steel door open. I dropped to my knees in the wet gravel, reaching into the freezing enclosure, and pulled my daughter into my arms.
Her body was ice cold. Her thin nightgown was soaked through, sticking to her bruised collarbones and swollen arms. I wrapped my heavy, waterproof tactical jacket around her shivering frame, lifting her forty-pound lighter body as if she were a child again.
"I've got you, baby," I whispered, pressing my cheek against her wet hair. "Dad’s here. I've got you."
"He... he took my phone," Clara sobbed into my neck, her hands clutching weakly at my sweater. "He locked me out here yesterday morning... Dad, he said nobody would ever find me."
The rage inside me burned with the heat of a furnace, but I kept my breathing steady. I carried her across the yard toward the patio.
Richard was still lying on his stomach, crying into the stone tiles, terrified to move under the watch of his own guard dog.
I looked down at him. "Where is the security system NVR hard drive, Richard?"
"In... in the study," he sobbed. "Behind the bookcase. The code is 0412."
I didn't waste time going inside. I knew how wealthy men like his father operated. The local police department in Greenwich was heavily funded by the Vance family foundation. If I called 911 right now from this estate, the responding officers would handle this as a 'domestic dispute' and give Richard time to cover his tracks.
I pulled out my encrypted satellite phone, dialed a direct private line, and put it to my ear as I walked back toward the rain-soaked woods with Clara in my arms.
"Arthur?" a deep, gravelly voice answered on the second ring. It was Frank Miller, retired Assistant Director of the Connecticut State Police Major Crime Unit—and my former tactical partner of twenty years.
"Frank," I said, my voice cutting through the storm. "I have Clara. She’s severely hypothermic with evidence of physical torture. We are leaving the Vance estate now. I need a secure medical team at your private clinic in Stamford, and I need a state-level warrants team assembled."
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"My God, Arthur," Frank breathed. "Is Richard Vance still at the house?"
"He's tied up in his own yard," I replied coldly. "And Frank... make sure the State Troopers bring the big cameras. We're burning this empire to the ground."
