Chapter 4 - The Hunted
“I don't know what you're talking about,” I snarled, stepping forward, ready to launch myself across the room despite my lack of training.
Julian Vance didn't flinch. He merely smiled, his gray eyes fixing on me with chilling indifference.
“Mr. Miller, let’s not be foolish. You’re a construction executive from Chicago. You build office parks and apartment complexes. You have a comfortable life, a clean record, and absolutely no business standing in the middle of an international criminal investigation.” He took a slow step closer. “Hand over the flash drive, and Mrs. Sanders gets to live out her remaining days in peace. Refuse, and your unfortunate reunion in Miami will end with both of your names in the obituary column.”
“Get out,” Sarah rasped from the bed, her voice trembling but fierce. “He doesn't have it, Julian. Nobody has it.”
Julian sighed, shaking his head with mock disappointment. “Such a shame. You always were stubborn, Sarah.”
Suddenly, the overhead emergency lights in the hallway began to flash a dull, rhythmic red. Shouts echoed from the nurse’s station outside, followed by the heavy thud of running boots and the sound of breaking glass.
Julian’s smile faltered for a split second. He checked his watch, realizing his window was closing.
“This conversation isn't over, Mr. Miller,” Julian murmured, turning smoothly toward the door. “Miami is a very large, very deep ocean. People vanish here every single day.”
With that, he slipped out into the chaotic hallway and vanished into the crowd of panicking staff and visitors.
“Sarah, we have to get you out of here,” I said, turning back to the bed and immediately pulling the IV lines from her arm, ignoring the small drops of blood that welled up on her skin.
“Charles, we can't go to the police,” she protested weakly, wincing in pain as I helped her sit up. “Meridian has bought off local law enforcement down here for years. Every precinct from Miami to Key West is compromised.”
“Then we don't call the local police,” I said, my mind racing through every contact I had cultivated over a decade in construction and business. “We call federal marshals. And we need to find that flash drive right now.”
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“It’s safe,” she whispered, grabbing my sleeve with trembling fingers. “When I knew they were onto me, I mailed it to a secure post office box in Chicago under an alias—the only place they’d never think to look.”
“In Chicago,” I repeated, a sudden surge of grim determination flooding my veins. “Then we’re going home.”
