Chapter 4 - The Debt Collection
The sound froze Brandon mid-motion.
His arm remained suspended above Margaret, who lay curled on the marble floor among the broken glass, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Brandon’s face lost its color. In all the years they had lived in Roland Park, no one had ever knocked on their door uninvited at 9:30 at night. Reporters called the gate. Colleagues scheduled appointments through his secretary.
Then a man’s voice traveled through the heavy oak door.
“Dr. Whitmore, you missed our appointment.”
Brandon took a stumbling step backward, his hand dropping from the air. He reached behind his back, his fingers trembling as he drew a snub-nosed 9mm handgun from his waistband.
The man outside didn't raise his voice. He didn't pound on the wood. He simply spoke again.
“Making someone wait is impolite, Doctor.”
Brandon approached the door like a condemned man walking to the gallows. When he threw the deadbolt and jerked the heavy door open, cold autumn rain swept across the marble foyer.
Austin Fontaine stood on the porch, flanked by two broad-shouldered men in dark raincoats who blended into the stormy Baltimore night like shadows. Austin wasn't holding a weapon. He didn't look angry. He looked like a man inspecting an inferior piece of real estate.
“Fontaine,” Brandon choked out, trying to force a confident sneer onto his pale face. “This is private property. If you’re here about the port expansion loan—that’s a business matter for my financial advisors, not a midnight visit—”
“I don't deal with advisors, Doctor,” Austin interrupted, stepping past Brandon into the foyer without waiting for an invitation. His two guards remained outside, sealing off the entrance. “I deal directly with the men who borrow four million dollars from my shipping logistics fund to finance their private clinic expansions in Palm Beach, and then forget to make their quarterly payments.”
Brandon’s chest heaved. “I requested an extension. The bank—!”
Austin didn't answer him. His dark eyes swept past Brandon’s shoulder into the open-concept kitchen.
They saw the broken wineglass glittering on the floor.
They saw Margaret curled against the marble island, her pale blue uniform torn at the shoulder, one cheek bruised and swelling against the cold stone.
The temperature in the foyer seemed to drop below freezing.
Austin’s calm, detached expression vanished. The air around him suddenly felt heavy, charged with a lethal, terrifying stillness that made Brandon’s gun hand shake uncontrollably.
Austin took two slow, deliberate steps past Brandon, ignoring the surgeon completely, and knelt down on one knee beside Margaret on the kitchen floor.
“Who did this?” Austin asked. His voice wasn't loud. It was soft—the kind of quiet that precedes a hurricane.
Brandon raised the handgun, pointing it unsteadily at Austin’s back. “Get away from my wife! This is a domestic matter! You have no right—!”
Austin didn't even turn around. With a speed so fast Margaret barely registered it, one of the guards outside moved through the doorway, and in a single fluid motion, a heavy silencer-fitted pistol was pressed squarely against the center of Brandon Whitmore’s forehead.
Brandon froze. The color drained entirely from his face. The gun in his hand slipped from his nerveless fingers, clattering loudly against the marble floor.
May you like
Austin turned his head slightly, looking back at Brandon with dead, obsidian eyes.
“Put your hands on the wall, Doctor,” Austin commanded softly. “And pray my mother likes your wife. Because if she doesn't, you aren't going to live long enough to finish paying me back.”
