Chapter 6 - THE CHILD'S DRAWING
The air in the room turned to ice.
Claire held Lily tighter against her chest, turning her body to shield the child from the barrel of Maria’s gun. Lily buried her face in Claire’s neck, trembling like a leaf.
“Maria, please,” Claire begged, her voice cracking. “She’s six years old. You read her bedtime stories.”
“It’s just business, Claire,” Maria said flatly, keeping her aim steady. “The drive.”
Vincent stood perfectly still, his eyes locked on Maria’s weapon. He calculated the distance, the angle, the risk. It was too far. If he lunged, Maria would fire before he reached her.
“You’re making a mistake, Maria,” Vincent said calmly. “My uncle is a dying man. If you shoot that child, there isn’t a hole deep enough on this earth for you to hide from me.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Maria sneered.
Preston, still cowering in the corner, suddenly found his voice.
“Take the drive!” Preston yelled, pointing frantically at Claire. “Just take it and leave! Leave me out of this!”
Claire looked at the man she had married. He wasn’t even looking at his own daughter. He only cared about saving his own miserable life.
Claire reached around her neck and unclasped the gold chain. She let the metallic flash drive drop onto the mahogany desk with a heavy clink.
“Take it,” Claire said, her voice turning to steel.
Maria stepped forward, keeping the gun trained on them, and scooped up the drive with her free hand. She pocketed it with a satisfied smirk.
“Smart girl,” Maria said.
She began to back away toward the hallway.
“Mommy,” Lily whispered, her small hands tugging at Claire’s collar.
Claire’s heart broke. Lily had never called her Mommy before tonight.
“It’s okay, baby,” Claire soothed, rubbing her back. “We’re safe now.”
“I have something for you,” Lily mumbled into Claire’s shoulder.
“What is it, sweetie?”
Lily reached into the pocket of her pink pajama pants. She pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to Claire.
“I drawed it in the car,” Lily said. “Maria said I had to be quiet.”
Claire took the paper. She unfolded it slowly.
It was a drawing done in blue crayon. It showed a stick figure of a woman holding a smaller stick figure’s hand. Claire and Lily.
But it was what was drawn on the back of the paper that made Claire stop breathing.
It wasn’t a child’s scribble.
It was a sequence of numbers, written in a hurried, panicked scrawl with a black pen.
Routing: 489-221-009. Acct: 778-999-01.
Claire recognized the handwriting instantly. It was Maria’s.
Answer one.
Maria hadn’t brought Lily as a hostage. She had brought her as a mule.
Open two.
Why did Maria write the routing numbers on the back of a child’s drawing? And if the flash drive was the decryption key, what were the numbers for?
“Vincent,” Claire whispered urgently.
Vincent looked at the paper in her hand. His sharp eyes immediately recognized the sequence.
“Those are the offshore routing codes,” Vincent said, looking up at Maria, who had stopped in the doorway, her face draining of color.
“Where did you get that?” Maria demanded, her gun wavering.
“You wrote it,” Claire said, the pieces snapping together in her mind. “You didn’t know the decryption key was on the flash drive until Preston just said it. You thought the numbers were the key. You found Preston’s notes in the house, wrote them down, and slipped them into Lily’s pocket so if Preston’s guards searched you, they wouldn’t find them.”
Maria’s jaw tightened. She had been caught in her own web.
“Give me the paper,” Maria commanded, raising the gun again.
“No,” Vincent said.
Before Maria could react, Vincent reached into his suit jacket and pulled out the heavy silver pocket watch—Claire’s father’s watch.
With a brutal, flawless pitch, Vincent threw the heavy silver timepiece directly at Maria’s face.
It struck her squarely between the eyes with a sickening crack.
Maria stumbled backward, crying out in pain, her gun firing wildly into the ceiling.
Vincent didn’t hesitate. He closed the distance in two massive strides, grabbing Maria’s wrist and twisting it violently. The gun clattered to the floor. Vincent drove his knee into her stomach, sending the betrayer collapsing to the concrete, gasping for air.
Vincent stood over her, breathing heavily. He reached into her leather jacket and retrieved the flash drive.
He looked back at Claire and Lily.
“Are you hurt?” Vincent asked.
“No,” Claire said, holding Lily tight. “We’re okay.”
Vincent looked at Preston, who was trying to crawl toward the exit.
“Don’t move, Preston,” Vincent warned, his voice lethal.
Preston froze, pathetic and broken.
Vincent walked back to the desk. He looked at the child’s drawing in Claire’s hand.
“My uncle’s men will be coming,” Vincent said grimly. “Maria wouldn’t have come here without backup waiting outside. We have to leave. Now.”
He turned to the wall safe. The vault door was still hanging open.
Vincent reached inside and carefully picked up the velvet box holding the emerald bracelet.
“Why are you taking that?” Claire asked.
Vincent looked at her, his eyes filled with a profound, quiet sorrow.
“Because this bracelet didn’t just belong to your mother, Claire,” Vincent said softly. “It belonged to mine.”
The reversal shattered the foundation of everything Claire knew.
“Your mother?” Claire gasped.
“My mother was murdered twenty years ago,” Vincent said, placing the box in his pocket. “By my uncle. Your father was the only witness. He took this bracelet from the scene as proof, locked it away, and hid me to keep me safe. He died protecting my family’s truth. Now, it’s my turn to protect his.”
Suddenly, the heavy metal door at the end of the warehouse rattled violently. Someone was trying to break in.
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“They’re here,” Vincent said.
He grabbed Claire’s arm gently. “Hold onto Lily. We’re going to the safe room.”
