Chapter 15 - The Breakout at St. Jude’s
I arrived at the St. Jude Medical Facility in upstate New York within ninety minutes, flanked by four former Secret Service operators I had retained on personal contract.
The private clinic sat behind high wrought-iron gates, nestled within acres of dense autumn woodland, masked as an elite psychological rehabilitation retreat.
Arthur met me at the entrance, his face pale under the flickering halogen lights of the ambulance bay.
"The judicial order was signed by a corrupt federal magistrate Marcus had in his pocket since the early nineties," Arthur reported quietly.
"They claimed Victoria suffered a severe psychological collapse requiring immediate specialized custody."
"She was supposed to be under marshal escort, but the marshals were recalled thirty minutes ago by a falsified Department of Justice memo."
"We go in now," I said, my voice cutting through the damp chill of the night.
We bypassed the reception desk, where the night clerk sat frozen in shock at the sight of my tactical security team.
I pushed open the heavy double doors of the private wing on the third floor, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The corridor was eerily quiet, the smell of sterile antiseptic mingling with the faint aroma of expensive French perfume that I recognized instantly.
Room 304 stood ajar, the light spilling onto the polished linoleum in a sharp, accusatory beam.
I stepped inside, my body coiled for violence, but the room was empty of guards.
Sitting on the edge of the motorized hospital bed, dressed in a black cashmere coat over her patient scrubs, was Victoria Thorne.
Her golden hair was tied back, but her face was gaunt, the predatory glow of her former arrogance dimmed by months of interrogation and fear.
On the bedside table lay an open duffel bag packed with false passports, stacks of bearer bonds, and a burner satellite phone.
She looked up as I entered, her lips curving into a bitter, venomous smirk that failed to mask the terror in her eyes.
"Look who came to see the invalid," Victoria sneered, though her voice lacked its former theatrical poise.
"Did you bring your shears, Clara? Are you here for your pound of flesh?"
I walked deliberately toward her until I stood less than three feet away, towering over her with the unyielding presence of a woman who had survived the worst she had to offer.
"The shears belong to petty cowards who strike when their victim's back is turned," I said evenly.
"I don't need scissors to destroy you, Victoria; I've already done it with a single courtroom gavel."
"You think this breakout was Marcus saving you?"
"Look at that duffel bag."
Victoria glanced at the bag, her brows furrowing with defensive irritation.
"My father is extracting me to South America," she hissed. "He wouldn't abandon me."
"Those passports are flagged on Interpol’s red notice list, Victoria," I said, tossing a printout onto the mattress beside her.
"Marcus didn't arrange this escape to save his daughter."
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"He arranged it so federal marshals would have shoot-to-kill authority when you reached the border."
"He is executing the loose ends, exactly like he tried to do to Julian in Terre Haute."
