The elevator ascended with a smooth, quiet hum, a stark contrast to the controlled storm brewing within Hank. He stood beside the impeccably suited man Constance had dispatched, a figure whose calm demeanor radiated quiet authority… Mr. Janson, he’d learned during the brief ride up. As the doors slid open onto the sixth floor, the antiseptic smell intensified, mingling with the low murmur of hospital activity. They hadn’t taken three steps onto the polished tile before a figure intercepted them, blocking their path with an air of indignant self-importance. Dr. Harrison. His face was flushed, his thin lips pressed into a tight line of displeasure.

  “Just what the hell do you think you are doing here?” the doctor demanded, his voice sharp, accusatory, directed solely at Hank. “I made it explicitly clear. This hospital is no longer allowing you access. Security should have stopped you.”

  Hank merely arched an eyebrow, a cold smirk playing on his lips. He felt Mr. Janson shift slightly beside him, a silent readiness. Before Hank could utter a word, the older man stepped forward, his presence instantly commanding attention despite his unassuming posture.

  “Hello, Doctor Harrison,” Mr. Janson said, his voice impeccably polite, yet carrying an unmistakable undercurrent of steel.

  Dr. Harrison recoiled slightly, his bluster faltering as he recognized the man before him. “M-Mr. Janson,” he stammered, his flush deepening. “I… I didn’t realize you would be visiting today. Please, excuse me while I deal with this… individual.” He gestured dismissively towards Hank.

  Mr. Janson simply shook his head, a slow, deliberate movement that somehow carried immense weight. “I believe you have that quite wrong, Doctor. You see, Mr. Avery is here with me. He has my full authorization.”

  The doctor’s gaze snapped back to Hank, raw anger warring with confusion in his eyes. “Mr. Janson, with all due respect, I must insist! This man is attempting to remove a critically ill child from necessary medical observation!”

  Hank chuckled then, a low, dangerous sound that made the doctor flinch. “She was sick, Doctor,” Hank corrected, his voice dangerously soft. “Keyword: was. And now that she is miraculously well, which seems to baffle your esteemed medical opinion, you want to keep her? Against her will, I might add? And more importantly, keep her from her legal adoptive father?” Hank pulled out his phone, tapping the screen purposefully. Constance had worked quickly. Her friend, a Superior Court Judge, had heard the story… the neglect, the imminent adoption, the sudden recovery… and expedited the paperwork. He held up the screen, displaying the crisp, official digital document confirming his temporary guardianship pending finalization. “Adoption papers, Doctor. Signed and sealed this morning.”

  Mr. Janson cleared his throat, drawing the doctor’s panicked attention back to him. “Doctor Harrison,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, becoming colder, “considering this new information, and the rather… unprofessional way you’ve attempted to handle this situation, the board of directors might need to seriously reconsider your position as head of this department.”

  “Sir! You cannot possibly believe what this man is saying!” Harrison protested, gesturing wildly at Hank, his desperation palpable. “He’s manipulating the situation!”

  Hank simply smirked, letting the man dig his own grave.

  Mr. Janson looked at the sputtering doctor, his expression unreadable. “Do you know Constance Hanigan, Doctor?” he asked quietly.

  Harrison nodded quickly. “Yes, sir, of course. Hanigan Investments. She’s one of our hospital’s highest annual contributors.”

  “Indeed,” Mr. Janson replied smoothly. “She is also Mr. Avery’s fiancée.” He paused, letting the weight of the statement settle. Hank offered a small, confirming nod, a faint smile playing on his lips. Constance’s power extended far.

  Mr. Janson continued, his voice crisp and final. “Miss Hanigan contacted the Hospital Board Director directly this afternoon. He, in turn, sent me to facilitate Mr. Avery’s access and ensure Miss Mona’s smooth transition into his care. So, Doctor Harrison, as of this precise moment, you can consider yourself on unpaid administrative leave for the next two weeks. The board will thoroughly review your conduct and determine your future at their next meeting. And frankly,” Mr. Janson added, his voice dropping further, “should Miss Hanigan choose to withdraw her substantial funding due to this… unpleasantness… well, the hospital simply couldn’t afford to retain your services any longer, regardless of the board’s decision.”

  Dr. Harrison’s face went from red to a pasty white. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, seemingly speechless. He glared venomously at Hank. “Mark my words,” he finally hissed, his voice trembling with impotent rage, “this will have consequences.” Then, he spun on his heel and stormed down the hallway, nearly colliding with a nurse pushing a medication cart.

  Molly Kells had stepped out of Mona’s room just in time to witness the entire exchange, her eyes wide, a hand covering her mouth. She looked at Hank, a mixture of shock, relief, and something akin to awe in her expression. Hank met her gaze and offered a reassuring smile. He turned back to Mr. Janson, extending his hand.

  “Thank you, sir. For your assistance,” Hank said sincerely.

  The older man shook his hand firmly, a warm smile finally replacing his stern demeanor. “My pleasure, Mr. Avery. And tell Constance congratulations from me. It’s clear you two will be very happy together.”

  Hank smiled. “Of that, I am sure. And please,” he added, “assure the board that Constance’s commitment to the hospital remains unwavering. This was about ensuring proper patient care, nothing more.”

  Mr. Janson’s smile widened. “Oh, she already made that clear. In fact, she offered to make a ten percent increase in her yearly donation, effective immediately.”

  Hank chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “Always one step ahead. I guess I better work harder making her company more money then.”

  Mr. Janson laughed heartily. “I suspect you’ll do just fine, Mr. Avery.” He gave a final nod and headed back towards the elevator. Hank watched him go, then turned and walked towards Molly, who stood by Mona’s now-open door.

  “Is she ready?” he asked softly.

  Molly nodded, her eyes still wide. “Wow. How… how did it go from you being barred to… that?” she asked, gesturing down the hall where the doctor had disappeared.

  Hank just smiled and held up his phone again, showing her the finalized adoption document Constance had forwarded. Molly’s eyes scanned the text, then filled with tears of relief and happiness.

  “She’s really…?”

  “Yep,” Hank confirmed, his own voice thick with emotion. “Mona is officially an Avery.”

  ---

  The interior of the rented sedan felt cramped, the cheap upholstery sticking uncomfortably to Jhamish’s back in the lingering San Diego heat. He hated rentals; they lacked personality, anonymity bought at the price of discomfort, especially for a man built like him. Six feet eight inches of solid muscle didn't exactly fold neatly into a mid-size sedan. He sat low in the driver's seat, parked across the street, his gaze fixed on the imposing glass-and-steel facade of the Hanigan Investment building. Sunlight glinted off the windows, turning them into impenetrable mirrors.

  All damn day he’d been watching. The steady stream of corporate drones flowing in and out had slowed to a trickle as the workday wound down. Each entry and exit was meticulously monitored. Security, sharp in tailored uniforms that looked more military than civilian, didn't just glance at badges; they scanned them, then peered intently at faces, clearly comparing them against some internal roster displayed on handheld devices. Jhamish frowned, drumming thick fingers against the steering wheel. Getting inside wouldn't be subtle. He could force his way in, certainly. Break through the lobby guards, maybe even disable one or two with brutal efficiency. But the response time would be immediate. He calculated the odds… alarms, lockdown protocols, the inevitable swarm of police cruisers converging on the location. He’d be lucky to make it past the second floor before being overwhelmed, let alone search nine floors for one specific target. Capture was not an option. Failure was not an option.

  “Where is that bitch?” he mumbled, the words a low growl in the confines of the car. His source, a greasy private investigator who specialized in digging up dirt others couldn't, had been precise. Courtney and another young woman matching Sandra's description had arrived days ago, unloading a U-Haul directly into the building's private parking garage, disappearing into the elevators. They were inside. Somewhere.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  He shifted his weight, reaching for the worn leather folder lying on the passenger seat… retrieved from the hidden compartment beneath the floorboards in Alex’s squalid apartment, just as the idiot had described. He flipped it open. Inside were Alex's obsessive notes, newspaper clippings about the kidnapping Alex had botched, and several photos of Courtney. Jhamish studied one snapshot, a candid photo likely taken from social media. Blonde hair, bright blue eyes, an athletic build honed by volleyball. Alex's final target. Jhamish had to admit, even clinically, that she possessed a certain striking beauty, a vibrant energy that radiated even from the glossy paper. A cold smirk twisted his lips. Alex had wanted her broken, used, then discarded. Maybe, Jhamish thought, feeling a flicker of dark amusement, maybe he’d indulge in a little… preliminary interrogation… before fulfilling the final part of the contract. A bonus for his trouble. Fuck her a time or two, make her scream his name instead of Alex's, then finish the job.

  But first, he had to find her. Nine floors. Dozens, maybe hundreds of offices. She could be anywhere. He needed a way in, quiet and unnoticed. He needed access. Patience, he reminded himself, settling back into the uncomfortable seat, his eyes resuming their cold, calculated scan of the building's entrance. Patience, and the right opportunity. He would wait. And when he found her, she wouldn't escape again.

  ---

  Kamilla West stepped out of the elevator into the hushed, climate-controlled cool of the Hanigan Investment lobby, the familiar click of her boots echoing slightly on the polished marble. Her late shift was just beginning, but her senses were already on high alert. She nodded a silent greeting to Officer Miller behind the security desk, her eyes automatically scanning the street outside. And there it was. The same nondescript, dark sedan that had been parked across the street, angled just so, nearly all day. She'd first clocked it hours ago from the windows on the eighth floor during a routine check outside, noting the lone occupant whose gaze seemed fixed unwaveringly on the building's entrance. Now, seeing it still there as evening bled into night, a knot of professional unease tightened in her stomach.

  The driver was large, even seated; his silhouette seemed to fill the driver's side, radiating an unnerving stillness, an intense focus that felt misplaced for someone merely waiting. Constance Hanigan had personally briefed security about a potential threat involving a man named Jhamish targeting someone connected to Hank. This car, this driver… it felt wrong.

  Casually, Kamilla pulled out her personal cellphone, pretending to check messages. She angled it discreetly towards the street, zoomed in quickly, and snapped several photos of the sedan, making sure to capture the license plate and a clear, albeit slightly distant, shot of the man behind the wheel. His features were harsh in the grainy zoom, his expression unreadable but intense. Satisfied, she slipped the phone back into her pocket.

  She exchanged a few words with Miller, confirming the shift changeover details, then found a quiet corner near the elevators. Scrolling through her contacts, she found the number she needed and pressed call, holding the phone to her ear.

  “Jazmin Flores, cyber-wizard extraordinaire,” a cheerful, slightly sarcastic voice answered after two rings.

  Kamilla couldn't help but smile. “Hi Jaz,” she said, the familiar greeting instantly easing some of her tension. Jazmin, "Jaz" to her friends, was an old academy buddy who’d gone on to become a tech genius with the Hollywood PD’s digital forensics unit.

  “Kamilla! Damn, girl, long time no talk! What’s up? Need me to hack into some cheating boyfriend’s email again?” Jaz teased.

  “Not exactly,” Kamilla replied, her tone shifting back to business. “Listen Jaz… I need a favor. Just sent you a few pictures via secure message. Think you can work some of that computer magic of yours?”

  “Always got time for you, K. Gimme a sec… downloading now…” There was a pause, filled only by the faint clicking of keys on Jaz’s end. Then, a low whistle. “Okay, got ‘em. Plates coming back… huh, rental. Checked out this morning under the name Simon Garfunkel.”

  Kamilla snorted. “Seriously? Simon Garfunkel? If I ever heard a fake name, that’s definitely it. Stealing a celebrity’s name, real original.”

  “Right?” Jaz agreed. “Okay, running the driver’s license he used for the rental… yep, flagged as fake. DMV confirms it doesn’t exist.” There was more typing. “Alright, sending the facial rec program through the databases now… this might take a minute…”

  Kamilla waited patiently, her gaze drifting back towards the street outside. The sedan hadn't moved.

  “Bingo!” Jaz exclaimed suddenly. “Okay, this is where it gets interesting. Facial recognition pulled a partial match, flagged under J-H. Amish. Cross-referencing aliases… holy shit, Kamilla. This guy is Jhamish. Full name Jhamish. He’s got warrants out in Idaho for assault with a deadly weapon, Arizona for kidnapping, New York for aggravated battery, and Washington state for… damn, multiple counts including suspected homicide. And listen to this… there’s a fresh BOLO out on him, issued just yesterday by Miami PD. Considered armed and extremely dangerous. Who the hell is this guy, K?”

  Kamilla felt a cold chill despite the lobby’s warmth. Jhamish. The name Hank had warned them about. The threat was real, and he was right outside. “He’s the guy we got a credible threat warning about,” Kamilla said, her voice low and steady. “Targeting a young woman associated with someone important here.”

  “Jesus. Okay, well, you got him identified. Anything else I can dig up?” Jaz asked, her tone all business now.

  “No, this is perfect, Jaz. Exactly what I needed. Thanks, I seriously owe you one,” Kamilla said, gratitude warming her voice.

  “Girl, please. You just go find yourself a decent man for once, and I’ll consider us even. You’ve been alone for way too long since you kicked that asshole ex to the curb,” Jaz retorted, her protective friend mode kicking in.

  Kamilla hesitated, then a small smirk touched her lips. “Well… about that…”

  “Wait,” Jaz interrupted, her voice incredulous. “You met someone? And I haven’t heard about it?! Kamilla West, I swear I am flying down to San Diego myself to check this guy out. He better be good enough for you, or I’m kicking his ass.”

  Kamilla laughed, shaking her head. Jaz absolutely meant every word. “How about you give me a few days?” she suggested. “Let me deal with this… situation… first, make sure everyone’s safe. Then we’ll talk. Maybe I’ll even invite you down.”

  “You damn well better…” Jaz grumbled playfully.

  “Yeah… yeah…” Kamilla promised. Jaz laughed again.

  “Alright, K. Stay safe down there. Call me if you need anything else, seriously.” The line clicked dead.

  Kamilla lowered the phone, her expression hardening with resolve. Jhamish. Wanted. Dangerous. And sitting right outside their building, likely watching, waiting for Courtney. This guy was big, very big, a professional threat. This wasn’t just a security issue anymore; this required a coordinated response. She sat down heavily on one of the lobby benches, pulling her phone back out. Her fingers moved quickly, dialing the direct line for the nearest San Diego Police Department precinct sergeant she knew. They needed everyone on this one, and they needed them now.

  ---

  The phone connection felt solid, a direct line into the familiar controlled chaos of the San Diego Police Headquarters. Kamilla kept her voice low and even, aware of Officer Miller nearby, though her heart hammered against her ribs.

  “San Diego Police Headquarters, Sergeant Hernandez speaking,” the voice on the other end was brisk, professional, slightly weary… the unmistakable sound of Martine Hernandez juggling a dozen things at once.

  “Martine, it’s Kamilla West,” she said, keeping her tone level, professional.

  A brief pause, then recognition dawned. “Kamilla! Blast from the past. How’s life in the private sector treating you? Making bank protecting the rich and famous?” His tone was teasing, the easy camaraderie of former colleagues evident.

  Kamilla allowed herself a small, humorless snort. “Pays better than working the streets, Martine, you know that.”

  He laughed, a short, genuine sound. “I hear that. Seriously though, good to hear from you. How can I help you? Don’t tell me one of your corporate bigwigs got his briefcase stolen.”

  “Wish it were that simple,” Kamilla replied, her voice dropping slightly, gaining intensity. “Listen, Martine, did you guys get a BOLO pushed through from Miami PD sometime yesterday? Regarding a possible threat originating there, heading this way?”

  Martine’s jovial tone vanished instantly, replaced by professional caution. “That’s specific information, Kamilla. How the hell did you get wind of that?”

  “I got it because the target mentioned in that alert, a young woman named Courtney, lives in the building I’m assigned to now… Hanigan Investments. And the threat?” Kamilla paused, letting the weight of her next words land. “He’s here, Martine. Right now. Jhamish. He’s been sitting in a dark rental sedan parked across the street all damn day, watching the entrance.”

  The silence on the other end stretched for a beat, thick with implications. “Kamilla,” Martine said, his voice sharp now, devoid of any earlier teasing, “I need you to be absolutely one hundred percent certain about this identification. Jhamish is not someone we take lightly.”

  “Martine, I wouldn’t make this call if I wasn’t sure,” Kamilla stated firmly. “I got pictures… plates, his face. Sent them to Jaz Flores over in Hollywood.”

  “You called Jaz?” Martine sounded surprised, then impressed. “Fuck.” He knew, just as well as Kamilla did, that Jazmin Flores was a legend in digital forensics and facial recognition. There wasn’t a system she couldn’t crack or an identity she couldn’t unearth if given even a pixelated crumb of data. If Jaz confirmed it, it was gospel. “What did she say?”

  “Rental car checked out under a fake name… Simon Garfunkel, if you can believe it. Driver’s license used was bogus. But facial rec nailed him. It’s Jhamish. Matched him to warrants in four states and the Miami BOLO.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Martine breathed. “Okay, Kamilla. Listen to me. Do not engage him. Do not approach. Do not make it obvious you’ve spotted him. We are on the way. ETA five minutes, maybe less.”

  “Bring the big guys, Martine,” Kamilla urged, her own assessment of Jhamish’s imposing physical presence adding weight to her words. “This guy, from what I saw… he is huge. Easily six-eight, built solid. He’s not going to go quietly.”

  Martine didn’t hesitate. “Understood. Heavy backup rolling. SWAT is already on standby notification two blocks out. Hold tight, Kamilla. And stay safe.” He didn’t wait for a reply; the line clicked dead. Kamilla knew he was already moving, barking orders, heading straight for the Captain’s office to authorize the tactical response. This wasn't just a wellness check; this was a high-risk takedown waiting to happen. She lowered the phone, took a deep breath, and gave Officer Miller a grim, determined nod. The waiting game was almost over.