Chapter 2 - The Red Ink on George Washington’s Face
The streetlamp above flickered, casting long, jagged shadows against the rain-slicked asphalt of Brooklyn. The black SUV sat idling across the two-lane street like an armored beast waiting to strike. Its dark windows reflected nothing but cold city drizzle.
Ivy Callahan didn’t realize she was shaking until Andrew’s heavy, warm hand covered hers.
He didn’t drop the five-dollar bill. He tucked it carefully inside the breast pocket of his bespoke charcoal suit—right over his heart. Then, he used his other hand to push Ivy behind the broad frame of his leg, shielding her from the vehicle.
"Marco," Andrew said. His voice was dangerously calm, devoid of panic, dropping into an octave that felt like ice grinding against stone. "Get the girl inside the Mercedes. Lock the doors. If anyone touches the glass, put a hole through their forehead."
"Boss," the larger bodyguard nodded, stepping forward with his hand resting firmly inside his lapel.
"No!" Ivy gasped, clutching the hem of Andrew’s wool coat. Her knuckles turned stark white. "Don’t let them take me! That’s the man who grabbed Mommy’s hair! He had a scar over his lip!"
Andrew glanced down at her for a fraction of a second. His stormy gray eyes, usually feared across five boroughs, held a sudden, fierce anchor of reassurance. "Nobody is taking you, Ivy. You paid me. Remember? We have a contract."
The rear door of the SUV swung wide.
Two men stepped out into the misty drizzle. Both wore heavy tactical jackets, their faces obscured beneath baseball caps, but Ivy instantly recognized the predatory gait of the man on the left. The thin, jagged scar splitting his upper lip curled into a sneer under the yellow glow of the streetlights.
"Mercer," the scarred man called out, raising both hands in mock innocence, though his right fingers hovered dangerously near his waistline. "We don't have business with the Mercer Syndicate tonight. We just came for the stray. The little girl belongs to a family matter. Hand her over, and nobody spills any ink on this pavement."
Andrew didn't flinch. He didn’t step back. Instead, he took two slow, deliberate paces forward, pulling the lapels of his coat open just enough to reveal the customized black Kimber .45 resting beneath his arm.
"You're standing on my pavement," Andrew said. Every syllable carried the weight of a death sentence. "And that child just hired me."
The scarred man scoffed, exchanging an amused glance with his partner. "Hired you? With what? Pocket lint and stolen quarters?"
"Five dollars," Andrew answered smoothly. "Cash. Paid in advance."
Before the man could laugh, Andrew’s hand moved with blinding, terrifying precision.
There was no shouting, no dramatic warning. Just the sharp, deafening crack of gunfire shattering the quiet Brooklyn night.
The scarred man’s knee exploded backward in a spray of dark crimson. He let out a wet, guttural shriek as he collapsed sideways onto the concrete, clawing at his shattered leg. His partner scrambled frantically for his own weapon, but Marco was already moving, his suppressed pistol spitting two rapid thuds into the second man’s shoulder before he could even clear leather.
In less than three seconds, both attackers were writhing on the wet pavement.
Ivy squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her face against the Mercedes’s rear door, her hands clapped over her ears. She expected screaming. She expected chaos. But when she peeked open one eye, Andrew was already standing over the scarred man, his polished leather shoe planted firmly on the man's bleeding kneecap.
"Aaargh! Mercer! Wait—wait!" the scarred man wheezed, his face pale with shock and agony. "You don't know who’s backing this! It's family business—she's just a nurse!"
"I don't care who is backing you," Andrew murmured, bending down so his shadow swallowed the man whole. "What I care about is the handwriting on the back of this five-dollar bill."
With cold deliberation, Andrew slid the wrinkled currency from his breast pocket and held it an inch from the man's terror-stricken eyes.
There, scrawled across George Washington’s face in dried, rusty red ink, were six words and a serial number:
DANIEL LIVES. LEVEL 4. DON'T TRUST CASSIAN.
The red wasn't ink. It was blood.
Ivy watched through the car window as Andrew’s jaw clenched so tight the muscles twitched violently.
"Daniel wrote this," Andrew whispered, and the quietness of his tone was far more frightening than any shout. "My brother hasn't held a pen in nine years because everyone swore he drowned in the Hudson. But Clara Callahan found him. She woke him up. And now you’ve taken her."
"I don't know where she is!" the scarred man cried out, his voice cracking. "I swear on my mother's soul, Mercer! Cassian handled the drop! They're taking her to the harbor chapel before dawn to sign the conservatorship papers! If she marries him, he inherits the grandfathered trusts—the entire Callahan estate and the medical board clearance!"
"The chapel," Andrew repeated softly.
He didn't ask a second question. He simply lifted his pistol and struck the butt of the heavy steel frame against the side of the man’s temple. The scarred man went instantly limp, crumpling unconscious into the gutter.
Andrew turned back toward the Mercedes. He wiped a faint smudge of rain from the barrel of his gun, holstered it, and adjusted his tie as if he had merely settled a minor disagreement at a board meeting.
When he opened the back door of the car, Ivy shrank back into the butter-soft leather seat, terrified of the monster who had just dropped two men without blinking.
Andrew paused. Seeing her fear, he knelt down on the rain-soaked floorboard so he was below her eye level once again. He reached out, his hand steady and warm, and gently brushed a wet strand of hair away from her forehead.
"You were very brave, Ivy," he said quietly.
"Did you... did you kill them?" she whispered, her lower lip trembling.
"They're sleeping," Andrew lied without hesitation, his voice softening into something remarkably tender. "And they won't ever come near you again. Now, tell me about your mother. Did she say anything to you before they broke through the door?"
Ivy sniffled, rubbing her nose with her sleeve. She reached into her tiny denim pocket and pulled out a small, tarnished silver key on a broken pink shoelace.
"Mommy put this around my neck," Ivy said, her voice shaking. "She told me, 'If they take me, find a Mercer. Tell them the fourth floor was never a hospital. It was a vault.'"
Andrew stared at the silver key. A dark, furious understanding swept across his features.
Cassian—his own first cousin, the man who sat at his Sunday dinner table and pretended to mourn Daniel’s empty grave—had orchestrated everything. He hadn't just stolen Daniel’s life; he was using an innocent nurse to legally steal an entire fortune before eliminating the only witnesses.
Andrew stood up and shut the car door securely. He climbed into the front passenger seat, looking straight ahead into the darkness.
"Marco," Andrew ordered, his voice ringing with absolute authority.
May you like
"Yes, Don Andrew?"
"Call the entire crew. Wake up every soldier from Red Hook to Staten Island. We aren't going home tonight." Andrew looked at the five-dollar bill resting on his dashboard. "We're going to tear Brooklyn apart until Clara Callahan is safe—and my brother is home."
