Chapter 12: The Subpoena
The unmarked federal sedan cut through the wet slush of the Albany streets as the afternoon sky darkened into an oppressive bruised purple. The grand stone facade of the St. Jude Medical Center loomed ahead, its towering institutional brick walls looking more like a maximum-security penitentiary than a care facility for the elderly. According to Vivienne’s decrypted facility manifests, Arthur Vance was being kept in a restricted-access wing on the fourth floor, officially classified under an administrative hold that prohibited all outside visitors.
Dominic parked the sedan in the underground loading bay beneath the kitchen delivery zone, killing the headlights while keeping the engine idling quietly in the damp shadows. He turned in the driver's seat, his dark eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror.
"Vivienne stays in the car with Clara and Lily to monitor the facility's internal security feeds," Dominic instructed, his voice dropping into that calm, authoritative register that brooked no argument. "I go inside alone. It’s cleaner that way. If Julian has a paid informant on the staff here, one man moving through the service corridors draws a lot less attention than a delegation."
"I'm coming with you," I said firmly, reaching for the door handle before he could protest. "Arthur Vance won't trust a stranger with a federal subpoena. He's spent twenty years hiding from men who look like Julian. But if I tell him we're here to help my sister and my niece reclaim their lives, he'll listen."
Dominic stared at me for a long, silent moment, his jaw tight as he weighed the risk. Finally, a small, grim nod broke the tension. "All right. Stay close to my shoulder, don't look anyone in the eye, and if security approaches us, let me do the talking."
We slipped out into the cold concrete loading bay, our boots crunching softly against the wet pavement as we entered through a heavy steel service door that Dominic had unlocked using a magnetic override tool Vivienne had provided. The interior corridors smelled faintly of antiseptic, bleached linoleum, and stale cafeteria coffee. We moved quickly and silently past rows of locked supply closets and industrial laundry carts until we reached the main service elevator.
The ride up to the fourth floor felt agonizingly slow. The digital floor indicator blinked upward—two, three, four—each red number feeling like a countdown to a confrontation we couldn't afford to lose. When the heavy doors slid open with a soft pneumatic hiss, we stepped out into a dimly lit hallway lined with heavy oak doors and frosted glass transoms.
Room 412 was located at the very end of the restricted corridor. A single security guard sat slumped in a plastic chair beside the doorway, his head nodding slightly as he scrolled through his smartphone. Dominic didn't hesitate. Moving with blinding, effortless speed, he closed the distance between them before the guard even realized we were there, pressing a heavy hand firmly over the man's mouth while sweeping his legs out from under him in a silent, fluid takedown. The guard hit the linoleum without a sound, instantly unconscious.
I slipped past them, pushing open the heavy wooden door of Room 412.
The room was small, lit only by the pale glare of a wall-mounted television playing an endless loop of financial news. Sitting propped up in a hospital bed by a mountain of white pillows was an elderly man with hollow cheeks, piercing blue eyes that matched Julian's, and a shock of untamed white hair. He turned his head slowly as the door creaked open, his gaze locking onto mine with sharp, unexpected suspicion.
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"Who are you?" the old man rasped, his voice trembling slightly from years of disuse. "If Julian sent you to check my signature, tell him I'm not signing away another dime."
I stepped forward into the pale light, holding up the pristine legal document Vivienne had prepared. "Mr. Vance, my name is Elena. We didn't come from Julian. We came to help you finish what you started twenty years ago."
