Chapter 3 - Blood on the Linoleum
The brass lock on Maeve’s door was forty years old and held together by optimism and rust.
When the heavy wooden frame splintered inward with a deafening crack, Titan didn't bark. He launched himself forward like a three-hundred-pound missile of pure instinct, his jaws closing around the wrist of the first man who burst into the room.
A sharp scream echoed through the small hallway as a tall man in a tactical jacket dropped his silenced pistol. Blood sprayed across the yellowed linoleum.
“Get the dog!” another voice barked from the dark corridor.
Arthur moved with terrifying speed for a man who had been half-dead an hour prior. He surged up from the armchair, grabbed the fallen gun from the floor before it stopped rolling, and fired twice through the open doorway.
Two heavy thuds hit the hallway floor.
Maeve stood frozen, the cast-iron skillet raised in her hands, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The smell of copper and gunpowder filled her tiny kitchen, thick and suffocating.
“Maeve! Grab the keys!” Arthur shouted, his arm wrapped around his bleeding torso as he kept the doorway covered with the pistol.
She didn't ask questions. She snatched her coat, her purse, and her car keys from the hook by the fridge. Titan released the unconscious intruder on the floor, returning to Maeve’s side, his muzzle coated in crimson, his body trembling with high adrenaline.
“Fire escape!” Maeve pointed toward the small window above her sink. “The alley behind the building leads to the street where I parked!”
Arthur didn't hesitate. He thrust her through the window first, followed by Titan, who scrambled onto the rusted metal ladder with surprising agility for his size. Arthur climbed out last, firing one final round into the lock of her apartment door to slow down any reinforcements.
Cold November rain lashed at their faces as they clambered down the iron stairs into the dark alley below. Maeve’s Honda was idling forty yards away under the pale orange glow of a flickering streetlight.
They threw themselves into the vehicle—Maeve behind the wheel, Arthur sliding into the passenger seat, his face ashen, and Titan panting heavily in the back.
As Maeve slammed her foot on the accelerator, her rear-view mirror captured the image of three black SUVs screeching to a halt outside her apartment building. Men in heavy coats poured out, automatic weapons drawn.
“They’re going to tear my place apart,” she whispered, her hands shaking so violently on the steering wheel that the car veered slightly before she corrected it. “My clothes... my mother’s photo... everything.”
Arthur looked at her, his pale eye unreadable in the dim dashboard light. He reached across the console and laid his large, calloused hand over hers on the gearshift. His palm was warm, steadying, and impossibly strong.
“I will rebuild your life ten times over, Maeve,” he said, his voice laced with an unbreakable oath. “Every piece of thread, every wall, every memory. But right now, I need you to keep driving. We’re going to the docks.”
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“The docks?” Maeve looked at him, horror mounting. “Isn't that where Julian Vance operates?”
“Julian thinks he controls the waterfront,” Arthur murmured, leaning his head back against the headrest as dark blood began to seep through his shirt once more. “He forgot that I built it.”
