Chapter 2 - THE BLACK CARS
Twelve hours earlier, Briar had been mopping blood off a clinic floor in Brooklyn.
The blood belonged to a pit bull named Rosie.
Rosie had survived.
Barely.
Briar had spent forty minutes holding pressure on the wound while Dr. Feldman stitched her up.
Then she had cleaned the table, washed the instruments, taken out the trash, and started mopping.
It was eleven at night.
She had started work at seven that morning.
Her phone buzzed.
RENT DUE: FINAL NOTICE.
Briar stared at the message.
“Great,” she muttered. “Love that for me.”
The clinic was a dump.
One flickering fluorescent light.
Cracked tile.
Cages older than Briar.
But it was safe.
Safe mattered.
Three engines rolled into the alley.
Briar looked through the glass.
Black SUVs.
All identical.
Her stomach tightened.
A large man in a tailored suit walked inside.
“Clinic’s closed.”
“I’m looking for Briar Lennox.”
Her grip tightened around the mop.
“Who’s asking?”
“Victor Hale.”
“Doesn’t answer my question.”
A hint of amusement crossed his face.
“My employer needs your help.”
“If he has a pet emergency, take it to Manhattan.”
“He already has.”
“Then why are you here?”
Victor placed an envelope on the counter.
Briar didn’t touch it.
“What is that?”
“Five thousand dollars.”
She laughed once.
“What kind of dog needs five thousand dollars of me?”
“One that won’t eat.”
“Then your employer needs a vet.”
“He has hired five.”
Briar leaned against the counter.
“I mop floors.”
“You also sleep beside abandoned animals when they’re afraid.”
Her face hardened.
“How do you know that?”
“Your boss told us.”
“You called him?”
“We asked questions.”
“That’s creepy.”
“It’s efficient.”
Briar looked toward the alley.
Four men.
Three vehicles.
All waiting.
“No.”
Victor’s expression changed.
“No?”
“Tell your employer to find someone else.”
“The dog has refused food for a month.”
“That’s sad.”
“He will die.”
Briar looked away.
Victor studied her.
Then he added quietly, “They say there’s nothing medically wrong anymore.”
That caught her.
“What happened before he stopped eating?”
Victor hesitated.
“Someone died.”
Briar stared at him.
There it was.
Not sickness.
Grief.
She had seen it in kennel dogs after bonded animals disappeared.
She had seen it in herself after her mother died.
She picked up her coat.
“One hour.”
Victor nodded.
“One hour.”
“And I leave whenever I want.”
His expression became unreadable.
“That may be something you should discuss with Mr. Ashworth.”
Briar stopped.
“Ashworth?”
Victor opened the door.
“Yes.”
She had heard the name.
Everybody had.
Damien Ashworth owned restaurants, clubs, construction companies, shipping warehouses, and, according to every whispered story in Brooklyn, half the people who owned the other half.
Briar took a step backward.
“No.”
Victor’s phone rang.
He answered.
Listened.
Then held it out to her.
“Mr. Ashworth wants to speak to you.”
Briar stared at the phone.
She should have walked away.
Instead, she took it.
“Hello?”
A man’s voice came through the speaker.
Low.
Controlled.
“If you save my dog, Ms. Lennox, I will make sure money is never a problem for you again.”
Briar swallowed.
“I don’t need your money.”
“No?”
“No.”
Silence.
Then he asked, “What do you need?”
Briar looked at the final rent notice glowing on her phone.
For some reason, the truth came out.
“A door nobody can lock from the outside.”
The line went quiet.
Then Damien Ashworth said, “Come help Caesar.”
Briar closed her eyes.
May you like
And made the mistake that changed her life.
She got into the car.
