Chapter 8 - The Net Tightens
The rain began falling in heavy, driving sheets along Route 29, turning the asphalt into black, mirrored ribbons.
At the Magnolia Grove Motel, neon pink and green letters flickered through the downpour, half the tubes buzzing with electrical decay: VACANCY - CABLE TV - TRUCK PARKING. In Room 14, tucked in the darkest corner of the L-shaped building, the curtains were parted by half an inch.
Patricia Vance stood behind the cheap polyester fabric, holding a glass of lukewarm tap water with hands that would not stop shaking.
At fifty-two, Patricia had spent her life cultivating an image of aristocratic refinement. She wore designer silk blouses, kept her silver-blonde bob immaculately styled, and spoke with the haughty cadence of old Southern money. But tonight, stripped of her position at the Graves estate, she looked like a hunted animal. Her makeup was smeared, her designer trench coat was wrinkled, and two heavy leather duffels sat zipped on the stained bedspread behind her, packed with bearer bonds, diamond jewelry stolen from the estate’s secondary safes, and fifty thousand dollars in crisp hundred-dollar bills.
She checked her gold Cartier watch. Two o’clock in the morning.
In four hours, the banks open across the Virginia line, she thought, her pulse thumping wildly against her temples. I take the secondary highways. By noon, I’m in Canada. Nathan Graves doesn’t care about a maid. He won’t tear up the world over eight thousand dollars. He has millions to worry about. He won’t notice until the quarterly audit next month.
She was telling herself the lie for the hundredth time when the lights in the motel room suddenly died.
The television screen went black. The humming air conditioner ceased its rattle. Outside, the flickering neon sign vanished into total, suffocating darkness.
Patricia froze, the glass slipping from her fingers and shattering against the thin industrial carpet.
No. Just a storm. It’s just the rain.
Then came the sound.
It was not a kick, nor a violent crash. It was the slow, metallic slide of a master key slipping into the lock of her door. The deadbolt clicked open with agonizing precision.
Patricia stumbled backward, her throat locking as she backed into the edge of the bed. “Who’s there?” she cried out, her voice shrill, stripped of all its former dignity. “I have a gun! I’ll call the police!”
The door swung inward into the darkness.
Framed against the torrential downpour and the flashing headlights of three black Suburbans idling in the lot stood Daniel Price. Water dripped from the brim of his dark jacket. He stepped across the threshold, his massive shoulders blocking any path of escape, while two silent men in tactical gear stepped in behind him, their sidearms held low and ready.
“You don’t have a gun, Patricia,” Daniel said, his gravelly voice cutting through the drumming rain like a blade. “And the local sheriff is currently on our payroll. He’s outside right now, directing traffic away from the driveway.”
Patricia collapsed against the headboard, tears of sheer panic ruining her face. “Daniel… please. Listen to me. It was a misunderstanding. I was going to wire the funds back! I was just—I had debts! Men in Atlanta were threatening my sister!”
May you like
Daniel didn't answer. He simply reached out, grabbed the collar of her expensive coat with one hand, and lifted her off the mattress as though she weighed nothing.
“Save the monologue,” Daniel muttered coldly, dragging her toward the door while the two enforcers picked up her duffel bags. “Nathan is waiting in the cellar. And he’s not in a listening mood.”
