Chapter 8 - The Weston Transit
The private transport van was an unmarked, reinforced black vehicle designed for discrete corporate security operations. Inside, Julian sat handcuffed to an iron floor ring, his jaw swollen where a security guard's elbow had connected during the scuffle in the alley.
Across from him sat Mark Graves, Arthur Vance’s personal head of security. Graves was a man of cold precision, a former military interrogator who treated domestic family conflicts like counter-insurgency campaigns.
""You made a foolish move, Julian,"" Graves said calmly, tapping a manicured finger against his tablet screen. ""Running a child across county lines while under an active court injunction constitutes felony custodial interference.""
""The injunction was purchased,"" Julian spat, tasting copper on his lips. ""Callahan belongs to my father.""
""The law doesn't care about the ledger, Mr. Vance. It cares about signatures,"" Graves replied smoothly. ""By midnight, your father will have emergency physical custody. The child will be placed on a private flight to Zurich. You will remain in a private psychiatric facility until you agree to sign over your power of attorney.""
Julian strained against the cuffs, the steel digging into his wrists. ""He'll never break Elena. She will burn down the family name before she lets Arthur touch our son.""
Graves offered a thin, pitying smile. ""A waitress with thirty dollars in her checking account doesn't burn down empires, Julian. She starves. And when she gets hungry enough, she negotiates.""
Suddenly, the transport van violently swerved.
Tires shrieked against wet asphalt as the driver slammed on the brakes. Julian was thrown forward, his shoulder slamming into the reinforced metal partition. Metal crunched against metal with a sickening impact as the van collided with an obstacle in the road.
Through the narrow, tinted rear window, Julian caught the glare of high-beam headlights slicing through the rain. A battered pickup truck had blocked the narrow bridge approach.
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""Graves!"" the driver yelled from the cab. ""We’ve got a roadblock! It’s not police!""
Before Graves could draw his sidearm, the rear doors of the van were wrenched open from the outside with a terrifying screech of shearing steel.
