Chapter 7 - THE CALL TO THE PRIVATE FOUNDATION
Grant Whitaker did not shout. He did not curse. The lethal men of the Whitaker syndicate never raised their voices when an execution had already been decided in their minds; they became quiet, cold, and terrifyingly efficient.
Without breaking his gaze from the child’s face, Grant reached into his overcoat and pulled out his private encrypted satellite phone. He tapped a single speed-dial digit and brought the device to his ear.
"Marcus," Grant commanded softly.
Down on the street, his driver and primary security chief answered instantly. "Sir?"
"Clear the back of the car. Turn the climate control to seventy-five degrees. Call Dr. Mercer at the private pediatric surgical pavilion at Columbia Presbyterian. Tell him I am arriving with an emergent pediatric intensive care case in twenty minutes. If the fifth-floor trauma bay isn't cleared of all other personnel by the time my wheels touch the asphalt, I will pull his clinic's entire operational charter by midnight."
"Understood, Boss. Coming up to assist?"
"No," Grant said, his eyes darkening. "Stay with the vehicle. Keep the perimeter cold."
He ended the call, slipped the phone back into his pocket, and took off his heavy charcoal overcoat.
He walked to the sofa. With movements so gentle, so impossibly tender that it seemed incongruous with his massive, tattooed frame, Grant gathered the five-year-old girl into his arms. He wrapped his warm, dry wool coat completely around her small body, pulling the plush cashmere collar over her ears to protect her from the drafts, leaving the dirty parkas behind on the corduroy cushions.
The child whimpered in her delirium, her burning forehead resting against the curve of his neck, her tiny fingers curling instinctively into the cotton of his sweater. A deep, visceral shudder tore through Grant’s chest as he felt the fragile, galloping flutter of her heart against his ribs.
He turned to Hannah, who was trembling against the wall, her hands clamped over her mouth.
"Grab your shoes and your coat, Hannah," Grant said softly. "You're never stepping foot in this building again."
"Grant... please," Hannah sobbed, her knees giving out, sinking to her knees on the floor. "Celeste... she has people watching the block. If she finds out—"
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Grant stepped over, extended his broad left hand, caught Hannah by her upper arm, and lifted her to her feet with effortless, irresistible power. He held her upright, his dark eyes locking onto hers with an absolute, unshakeable authority that silenced her terror instantly.
"Celeste Rowan has no power in this city anymore," Grant whispered, his voice like grinding millstones. "None. Now move."
