Chapter 4 - The Currency of Pain
"I... it's David," Sterling stammered into the receiver, sweat dripping off his chin onto the rusted iron armrest. "I have the patent reassignment deeds from the Voronin penthouse. Voronin's men were hit hard. He’s locked down his compound in Manhattan. He doesn't know where the girl is."
A brief, icy pause hung on the line. The background noise on the receiver crackled with the rhythmic, heavy hum of an industrial engine.
"Where is the girl now, Sterling?" the operative on the other end demanded.
David felt Alexander’s thumb press lightly against his carotid artery. The pressure was infinitesimal, but the threat was absolute.
"She's with me," David lied, his voice climbing an octave before he forced it down into a ragged whisper. "I've got her stashed in my brownstone in Cobble Hill. But I'm not handing over the master keys to the patent rights until I see Elena Vance signed off on the transfer. The Senator promised me immunity and full release from the civil liens."
The voice on the other end didn't hesitate. "Hangar 4, Republic Airport. Twenty-three hundred hours. Bring the child and the documents. If you bring a tail, Sterling, we bury you in the concrete foundation alongside the mother."
The line clicked dead.
Alexander lifted his hand from David's neck. The tycoon slumped forward, gasping for air as if he had just surfaced from drowning.
"I did it," David wept, staring at his shoes. "I gave you the location. You promised me—"
"I promised you nothing," Alexander cut him off, reaching down to pocket the satellite phone. "Mikhail."
The massive lieutenant stepped forward from the shadows.
"Lock him in the lower hold. Give him water and bread. No light."
"Voronin, please!" David screamed as two guards hauled him backward off the chair, his heels dragging through the dust. "You can't leave me here! Vance will kill me!"
"Pray that he gets the chance before I finish with him," Alexander said coldly.
Leaving the holding cells, Alexander returned to the upper office. Rory was sitting on the sofa, her legs dangling over the edge, drawing on the back of a legal pad with a blue ballpoint pen provided by the medic.
When Alexander walked in, she stopped drawing and looked up. The blue pen had traced another star, smaller this time.
"Are we going to get Mommy now?" she asked.
Alexander knelt in front of her. He looked at the girl's delicate features—she had her grandfather’s straight nose and unwavering gaze. Old Mikhail Vance had been an engineer who could assemble a turbine in the pitch dark under sniper fire, yet he had died penniless in a county hospital because corporate sharks like Richard Vance had bled him dry with non-disclosure agreements and patent lawsuits.
"I am going to get her," Alexander said softly. "You are going to stay here with Anna. She will protect you."
Rory shook her head vigorously, her brown curls bouncing. "No. Mommy said if I ever found you, I wasn't allowed to let go of your coat. She said you're the only person who keeps his word."
The words hit Alexander with the blunt force of an iron bar. He looked at the child’s fierce, desperate expression. Elena had remembered. For twelve years, despite having every reason to hate the world of violence he inhabited, she had taught her daughter that Alexander Voronin was an anchor in a hurricane.
Alexander stood up, glancing at Viktor. "Prep the convoy. Armored Suburban, low-profile escort. We take the airfield."
"Boss, taking the girl to an active extraction zone is reckless," Viktor advised quietly, stepping closer so Rory wouldn't overhear. "IronGate contractors are tier-one ex-military. They don't take prisoners."
"She stays in the reinforced passenger cell with Anna," Alexander replied, his tone brooking no argument. "Elena needs to see her daughter the second we breach that hangar. When people are broken, Viktor, they need a reason to keep breathing. Rory is that reason."
At 10:45 PM, a convoy of three blacked-out SUVs slipped out of the Red Hook naval yard, cruising north through the rain-slicked expressways toward Long Island. The drizzle reflected the orange glare of highway sodium lights, smearing across the reinforced bulletproof windshields.
Inside the center vehicle, Alexander cleaned and loaded three separate magazines for his Kimber. The rhythmic click-clack of brass cartridges snapping into steel springs was the only sound besides Rory's slow, rhythmic breathing as she slept, her head resting against the medic's lap, her small fingers still clutching the folded paper with the purple stars.
Alexander glanced out into the rainy dark. Republic Airport was a private aviation hub where billionaires, politicians, and intelligence contractors moved cargo without the inconvenient oversight of commercial terminals. Hangar 4 belonged to an shell corporation registered to Vanguard Crest Holdings.
At 10:58 PM, the lead SUV signaled via radio.
"Hangar in sight. Two sentries at the perimeter gate. Heavy transport van parked inside next to a Gulfstream G550. Thermal shows seven heat signatures inside the structure. One stationary on the floor. Looks like a hostage."
Alexander chambered a round into his pistol and picked up the radio transmitter.
"No negotiations," Alexander spoke, his voice settling over his operators like an iron frost. "Kill the perimeter. Take the doors. Leave the pilot alive. Everyone else dies."
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The radio clicked off.
The black Suburban accelerated, its heavy reinforced push-bumper smashing directly through the chain-link security gate at fifty miles per hour. Metal screamed, sparks sprayed across the wet tarmac, and the hunt began.
