Chapter 8 - The Shadow on the Highway
By Friday morning, the transformation was complete.
A private sedan delivered Joey Dawson to the Riverdale estate at eleven o'clock. He was nineteen years old, tall, thin, with dark hair like his sister’s, but his eyes were wide with shock as he stepped out of the leather-trimmed car onto the heated stone driveway.
Khloe ran out down the front steps, her charcoal dress snapping in the cold wind, her arms reaching out to wrap around her brother’s shoulders.
"Khloe!" Joey choked out, burying his face in her neck, his body shaking with deep, ragged sobs. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry I stopped writing... I thought..."
"Shh," she whispered, holding him tight against her chest, her splint pressing gently against his back. "It’s over, Joey. It’s all over. Nobody is ever going to hurt you again."
They spent two hours in the sunroom overlooking the river, talking in quiet, hushed tones while Rosa brought them tea and fresh pastries. For the first time in three years, Khloe listened to her brother talk about normal things—about his desire to finish his high school diploma, about his love for mechanics, about how clean the sheets smelled at the hospital in Beacon.
At two o'clock, Dominic Vance walked into the sunroom.
Joey instantly stood up, looking nervous, but Vance raised a hand, offering a polite, quiet nod.
"Joey," Vance said smoothly. "I have arranged for you to enroll in an engineering prep program at Columbia University starting in January. You will live in a private apartment near campus under the protection of my staff."
Joey stared at Vance in utter disbelief. "Why... why are you doing this for us, Mr. Vance?"
Vance looked at Khloe, who was standing beside her brother, her chin held high, her eyes clear and fierce.
"Because your sister is the most valuable partner I have ever had," Vance said simply. "And I protect my partners."
That evening at six o'clock, Khloe and Vance were riding in the back of the Maybach, traveling south along the Henry Hudson Parkway toward Midtown for a meeting with the Federal Prosecutor.
The rain had returned, heavy and blinding, drumming a fierce rhythm against the glass roof of the limousine.
"Moretti won't go quietly, Dominic," Khloe said quietly, reviewing a fresh set of financial filings on a tablet computer Vance had given her. "His family has controlled those docks for thirty years. They have too many people on their payroll to just walk away."
"Moretti is finished, Khloe," Vance said calmly, looking out the window at the passing city lights. "Without Hayes and the Port Authority, he’s just a thug with a fleet of old trucks."
Suddenly, the limousine lurched violently to the left.
A heavy, dark-blue commercial delivery van had surged out of the middle lane, slamming its steel side panel directly into the rear quarter of the Maybach with a deafening screech of tearing metal and shattering glass.
"Hold on!" the driver screamed from behind the partition as the Maybach spun out on the slick asphalt, its tires screaming against the wet pavement as it smashed sideways into the concrete guardrail of the highway bridge.
The impact was brutal. Khloe was thrown violently across the leather compartment, her shoulder slamming hard against the side door, her tablet flying into the darkness.
Before the Maybach could come to a complete stop, the rear doors of the blue van burst open, and three men in dark raincoats and ski masks jumped out into the torrential rain, carrying heavy automatic shotguns.
"Vance!" one of the masked men screamed, stepping up to the smashed side window of the limousine, raising his weapon toward the shattered glass. "Moretti sends his regards!"
Khloe gasped, trapped on the floor of the car, her splinted arm pinned beneath her body.
Dominic Vance didn't scream. He didn't panic.
With terrifying, lightning speed, Vance reached beneath his seat, pulled out a short-barreled silver revolver, slammed his shoulder against the dented side door, forcing it open, and fired three rapid shots through the blinding rain.
The lead gunman collapsed onto the wet pavement with a choked yell. The other two attackers scrambled back toward the van, firing a chaotic spray of buckshot that shattered the Maybach’s front windshield.
Vance stepped out into the pouring rain, his dark wool coat soaking through instantly, his silver revolver held steady in both hands as he fired two more precise shots, disabling the van’s front tire with a sharp blowout.
The driver of the van slammed the vehicle into reverse, accelerating away down the highway on three wheels, leaving their wounded companion lying on the wet concrete.
Vance stood in the middle of the highway, rain streaming down his face, his weapon held low at his side, looking around at the stalled traffic with cold, absolute authority.
He turned back to the Maybach, reached inside with his bare hand, and helped Khloe pull herself up onto the leather seat.
"Are you hurt?" Vance asked, his voice low, steady, and completely devoid of fear.
Khloe looked down at her torn sleeve, then up at Dominic Vance—at the blood on his knuckle, the rain in his dark hair, and the fierce, unyielding protection shining in his pale eyes.
May you like
"No," she whispered, her lungs expanding with clean air as she gripped his long, strong fingers with her good hand. "I'm fine."
"Good," Vance said, his jaw setting into a hard, unforgiving line as he looked down the highway toward the vanishing red taillights of the van. "Because now we are going to finish this."
