Chapter 6 - The Anatomy of a Target
The silence in the medical wing became absolute, broken only by the steady, rhythmic beep-beep-beep of Goliath’s heart monitor.
Molly stared down at the documents spread across the mahogany table. Names she hadn't spoken out loud in three years—names of corrupt judges, pharmaceutical CEOs, and syndicate capos—stared back at her in black and white print.
"Viktor Sterling," Molly whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of terror and long-dormant rage. "He... he runs the entire eastern shipping corridor. The feds told me he was untouchable."
"The feds are cowards who look wherever they're paid to look," Dylan said, leaning back in his chair, his gaze never leaving her face. "Viktor didn't just want your husband dead to stop the indictments. He wanted the master copies of the clinical trial data David had hidden in a secure, off-site server. Data you had the decryption keys for."
Molly looked up, a sudden realization hitting her like a physical blow. "That's why the marshals tried to poison me. They didn't want me dead because I was a witness—they wanted me dead because I was the only person who knew where the keys were buried."
"And for three years, Viktor's hit squads have been hunting you across every state line," Dylan added quietly. "When Goliath wandered into Blackwoods two nights ago with a gunshot wound to his flank... it wasn't a stray bullet from a gang fight."
Molly’s eyes widened. "Goliath... he was tracking them?"
"Goliath was trained by my security detail to track chemical signatures used in Viktor’s illegal labs," Dylan explained, his jaw clenching as he remembered the night his dog had dragged himself bleeding into the alley. "Viktor’s men caught scent of him near our northern warehouse three nights ago. They put a rifle round through his shoulder to send me a message: We're coming for your house, Burroughs."
"And instead of going to a vet," Molly said, her voice dropping to a breathless realization, "Goliath crawled through the back door of a greasy spoon downtown and collapsed at my feet."
"Dogs don't make mistakes about who to trust," Dylan said softly. He reached across the table, his warm, strong fingers brushing gently over the back of Molly’s hand. For the first time since she had met him, there was no threat in his touch—only an unspoken, absolute vow of protection. "He knew you were a surgeon. And he knew you were the only person in Chicago who wouldn't let him die."
Molly looked down at his hand resting on hers. For three years, she had been a ghost. She had lived in fear of mirrors, shadows, and the sound of heavy footsteps in an empty hallway. She had believed that surviving meant making yourself small, invisible, and worthless.
And now, sitting in the fortress of the most dangerous man in the Midwest, surrounded by armed guards and armed security, she felt something she hadn't felt since the night her husband died.
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She felt safe.
And more than that—she felt ready to fight back.
