Chapter 5 - The Harbor View Suites
Daniel didn't run down the stairs to the basement. He knew the loading dock would already be cleared, the transport vehicle gone into the storm long before he could reach the ground floor. Vance had security coverage over the entire hospital infrastructure.
Instead, Daniel turned and sprinted back into the main corridor, heading straight for the emergency exit that led to the parking lot.
He pulled out his phone as he burst into the freezing rain.
"Miller!" Daniel yelled into the mic. "Are you still at the crash site?"
"We’re clearing the scene now, Mercer," Miller’s voice came back, strained over the sound of wind and sirens. "Crime scene techs are processing the alley footprint."
"Forget the footprint!" Daniel shouted, throwing himself into the driver's seat of his station wagon and jamming the key into the ignition. "Vance just took Kayla from the hospital using a fake medical transport team. But I know where the baby is!"
"Where?"
"Harbor View Suites," Daniel said, spinning the steering wheel and spraying slush as he accelerated out of the physician lot. "Three blocks from the crash. Room key card was in Marjorie Vale’s purse. That’s where the buyer is waiting!"
"Mercer, do not go in there alone!" Miller ordered. "I’m rolling two units, but we’re five minutes out through this weather!"
"Five minutes is too late!" Daniel slammed his foot on the gas.
The Harbor View Suites was a forty-story tower of tinted glass and dark granite overlooking the icy waters of the Genesee River. The building catered to high-net-worth international residents, offering complete privacy, private elevators, and unmonitored underground parking.
Daniel pulled his car onto the sidewalk directly in front of the building's front entrance, leaving the engine running and hazards flashing.
He pushed through the revolving glass doors.
The lobby was opulent—heated marble floors, grand crystal chandeliers, and a high mahogany concierge desk. A young man in a crisp uniform looked up in surprise as Daniel, soaked in rain and scrubbed in dried blood, strode across the floor.
"Sir, can I help you?" the concierge asked, reaching under the counter toward a security button. "This is a private residence—"
Daniel pulled the blue keycard he had memorized from Marjorie’s purse out of his pocket—not the physical card, but the photograph he had snapped on his phone when he was standing in the hospital corridor.
He slammed his phone face-up onto the marble counter.
"Room number," Daniel said, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying growl. "Now. Before the homicide detectives behind me tear this lobby apart."
The concierge looked at the photo of the keycard on the screen, then at the blood on Daniel’s scrubs, and finally at the flashing police lights that were just turning onto the street three blocks away.
His face turned white. "Penthouse B," the boy stammered. "Private elevator key bypass is behind the counter."
Daniel reached over the desk, grabbed the master key fob from the hook, and ran toward the private elevator bank.
The elevator ride to the 40th floor was forty seconds of pure, agonizing torture. The digital display counted up—35... 36... 37...
Daniel reached into his trauma bag and pulled out a heavy stainless-steel bone saw—a surgical tool used for emergency amputations. It was heavy, sharp, and cold in his hand.
40.
The elevator chime rang with a soft, polite ding.
The doors slid open directly into a magnificent, open-concept penthouse living room. floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the storm-lashed city below.
Standing near a white leather sofa was a woman in her late forty, wearing a pristine grey cashmere coat. Beside her sat two large leather travel cases.
And standing in the center of the room, holding a small, blanket-wrapped bundle, was a man wearing a dark wool overcoat. His right trousers leg was torn, and his boots were dripping wet with dirty slush.
The passenger from the Escalade.
He turned instantly as the elevator doors opened, his hand reaching inside his coat for a weapon.
"Don't!" Daniel screamed, stepping out of the elevator with the heavy steel bone saw raised in his right hand.
The man pulled a compact silenced pistol from his holster, but before he could raise the barrel, the woman screamed.
"No! Not in front of the child!"
The hesitation was all Daniel needed. He closed the distance in three violent strides, swinging the steel bone saw with all his strength. The heavy metal handle struck the man across the wrist with a sickening crack.
The pistol clattered onto the polished hardwood floor, spinning across the room under the sofa.
The man grunted in pain, grabbing his broken wrist, but Daniel didn't stop. He drove his knee hard into the man’s stomach, sending him crashing backward over a glass coffee table, which shattered into a thousand glittering shards.
The woman shrieked, dropping to her knees near the windows, clutching the blanketed bundle tightly against her chest.
Daniel turned, panting heavily, his chest heaving, his surgical gloves covered in fresh sweat. He pointed the bone saw at the woman.
"Set the baby down," Daniel said, his voice shaking with absolute rage. "Set her down right now."
"Please," the woman begged, tears streaming down her perfectly sculpted face. "We paid them... we paid Dr. Vance seven hundred thousand dollars! They told us the mother was a teenager in Eastern Europe who died during childbirth! They told us it was completely legal!"
"They lied to you," Daniel spat, taking two steps closer. "The mother is a fourteen-year-old girl sitting in a gurney three miles away, bleeding to death while they try to lock her in an asylum to keep you happy."
The woman looked down at the bundle in her arms, her lower lip trembling.
Slowly, gently, she unwrapped the top fold of the pink fleece blanket.
Laying inside was a newborn infant. She had a small, distinct patch of dark hair right on the top of her tiny head. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her cheeks pink under the warm indoor air.
And on her left foot, dangling loosely from her tiny heel, was a hand-knit yellow sock.
The missing sock.
Daniel felt a lump form in his throat, a sudden wave of profound, overwhelming relief washing over him.
"She’s alive," Daniel whispered, dropping the bone saw onto the floor. "She’s alive."
Behind him, the private elevator chimed.
The doors opened, and Detective Miller burst into the penthouse with four armed officers, their guns raised.
"Police! Hands where I can see them!" Miller shouted.
May you like
Daniel didn't look back at the police. He stepped forward, gently took the blanketed baby girl from the crying woman’s arms, and held her close against his chest, feeling the small, steady rhythm of her heartbeat against his own.
"I’ve got her, Kayla," Daniel whispered into the quiet penthouse air. "I’ve got your daughter."
