Chapter 3 - The Raid on Delancey Street
At 5:15 AM, the storm over Manhattan peaked into a howling blizzard.
A convoy of six black armored SUVs glided through the snow-covered streets of the Lower East Side, their headlights cutting through the darkness like yellow knives. The city was dead silent, save for the wind whistling between the ancient brick tenement buildings.
I sat in the middle row of the lead SUV, right beside Julian. He wore a heavy black cashmere overcoat over his suit, his gloved hands resting on his knees. On his lap sat the gift box containing the brown toy dog.
"You didn't have to come, Elena," Julian said without looking at me, his eyes fixed on the snowy road ahead.
"Yes, I did," I said firmly, holding my handbag tightly. "Toby knows me. He knows Ivy. If six broad-shouldered men in tactical gear storm into his room in the middle of the night, he'll be terrified. He needs a familiar face."
Julian turned his head, looking at me in the dim blue light of the dashboard. A rare, quiet shadow of respect crossed his features. "You are braver than most executives I work with, Elena."
"I'm a mother, Mr. Hail. We don't lack courage when a child is involved."
"Julian," he said softly.
I looked at him. "What?"
"Call me Julian. You're not my housekeeper tonight, Elena. You're the only person in this city I can trust."
Before I could answer, the convoy pulled to a sharp halt in front of Saint Anne’s Children’s Home.
The building was a imposing four-story structure of dark red brick, built in the late nineteenth century. Iron bars covered the lower windows, and a set of heavy black oak doors stood at the top of a stone staircase covered in fresh, undisturbed snow.
Parked directly in front of the main gate was a unmarked white transport van with tinted windows. Three men in heavy black winter jackets stood near the rear doors, smoking cigarettes, their breath steaming in the freezing air.
"Vane & Sterling’s private security contractors," Marcus reported from the front passenger seat, pulling a sleek black sidearm from his coat and checking the chamber with a sharp clack. "They're early. They're trying to move the kid before the nuns wake up for morning prayer."
"No weapons unless fired upon," Julian ordered, his voice echoing with absolute command. "This is a rescue, not a battleground. Marcus, take the perimeter. Elena, stay behind me."
Julian opened his door and stepped out into the howling wind, holding the gift box in his arm. Marcus and four armed security men spilled out of the other SUVs, forming a tight protective wall around us as we marched up the snow-covered steps.
The three men near the white van froze, their hands dropping toward their waistbands.
"Hold it right there!" one of the contractors barked, stepping forward. "This is private property! State authorization—"
Marcus didn't give him the chance to finish. He closed the distance in two lightning-fast strides, grabbed the man by his jacket lapels, and slammed him face-first against the side of the van. The other two contractors drew their weapons, but within three seconds, Julian’s tactical team had four laser sights pointed directly at their chests.
"Drop them," Marcus growled.
The contractors slowly lowered their guns onto the icy pavement, raising their hands in the air.
Julian didn't even look at them. He walked straight past the trembling guards, reached the heavy black oak doors, and struck the bronze knocker three times.
The sound echoed loudly through the dark street.
A minute passed. Then, the heavy iron lock clicked. The massive door creaked open, revealing a frail, elderly nun in a black habit holding a brass lantern. Sister Beatrice.
"Oh! Lord have mercy!" Sister Beatrice gasped, clutching her rosary as she saw the armed men on her doorstep. "Who... who are you?"
I stepped out from behind Julian, pulling down my scarf. "Sister Beatrice! It’s me, Elena! Ivy's mother!"
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The sister’s eyes widened in shock. "Elena? What is happening? Who are these men?"
Julian stepped forward, removing his black leather glove and holding out his hand with deep, profound respect. "Sister Beatrice, my name is Julian Hail. I am Victoria Hail’s stepson. And I am here to take my brother home."
