Chapter 4 The Dangerous Path

Bill's Point of View

Bill stood by himself in the middle of his high-rise office, the floor-to-ceiling windows letting in the pale dawn light, long shadows stretching like silent sentinels across the polished marble floor. Every encounter Deborah had ever had with Pablo Steve was documented in the folders arranged in front of him, each entry accompanied by an image of her shaking hands with guys whose eyes were darker than the night or laughing in opulent lounges. As he read about the threats she had faced, the silent phone conversations, and the amounts of money she had moved under pressure, his chest constricted. Feeling the weight of all the lies he had told himself to avoid this moment, he ran a hand through his hair. He swallowed hard, shut the last folder, and muttered into the empty room that he would do whatever it took to save her from this dangerous path.

Knowing that he would have to blend in with the professional security teams he had hired, he went to his closet and picked out a fitted dark suit that was both practical and unobtrusive, yet strong enough to pass for a bodyguard. He quietly filled his sleek black backpack with necessities: breath mints, a concealed dagger, two silk-wrapped handguns, and a data disk that held the profiles of all Pablo Steve's known associates. His phone buzzed with the mysterious message, "He's watching," as he zipped the final compartment. each step. His ribs were crushed by his heart. He squared his shoulders and put the phone away. Don't wait any longer. No more feelings of guilt. He was going to do something now.

In the middle of the morning, Bill's black SUV rolled silently up to Naomi's building, a simple brick edifice that was still pulsing with the last of the morning's light from flickering street lamps. He was overcome with memories: the warmth of her hand in his, the gentle rustle of Deborah's sketches, and the evenings spent laughing with her at her former studio. He rang the buzzer and shook them off. With a determined yet pale look, Naomi responded and led him upstairs to Deborah's makeshift office. The scent of cedarwood and new ink filled the air, reassuring but poisoned by the anxiety he bore like armor.

Deborah was hunched over a drawing table in the studio, her fingers smeared with pencil dust and her hair tied back in an untidy bun. Her shoulders stiffened at the sound of his footfall, and she straightened so fast that the stool scuffed the wooden floor. Her black eyes widened when she recognized the official seal on the documents, and he carefully put the packet down. As if tasting fear, she licked her lips once. Bill inhaled steadily as he readied himself to heal the wound he had caused between them.

"Commissioned by Pablo Steve, alias unknown." Deborah's eyebrows knitted as she unfolded the top sheet and read the first paragraph. Her Adam's apple was bobbing as she swallowed. Though they did not fall, silent tears welled up at the corners of her eyes. Rather, she continued, "I tried to handle this on my own," pressing her palms flat on the table. Bill's throat became constricted. "You shouldn't have had to," he said in a stern but quiet voice.

Despite her trembling voice, she squared her shoulders and addressed his eyes. "I believed I could-I believed I had to conceal the truth in order to protect you." For a time, she closed her eyes as if the recollection itself were painful. He began modestly, promising wealth and a private preview. Then he threatened my clients and suppliers. Refusal, he made plain, meant more than simply a damaged reputation. Her remarks struck Bill in the stomach like stones.

He lifted a photograph that was taped to the folder's inside cover: Deborah grinning at a marble bar, a tall man in a dark suit watching her from the other side of the room while candlelight flickered softly on her cheek. "Five years ago?" he inquired. Her lips thinned into a line as she nodded. At start, it was merely a meeting. After the gala fiasco, I was in a precarious situation. He claimed to believe in my work and gave me an advance. Around the photo's edge, her knuckles turned white. "It was like being saved."

Bill closed his eyes and leaned back. He watched her alone herself at the gala, her world falling apart as the press shutters flashed like judgment. He said, "And then he asked you for more." She said in a whisper, "He needed a channel for his money," without even looking at him. The cover for my jewelry line was flawless. It became chilly in the room. A surge of anger and powerlessness slammed into Bill.

With a start, he got up and started to pace, his shoe bottoms making a soft sound against the wood floor. Every late-night meeting he had missed and every call he had disregarded flashed across his thoughts. His voice was so low that only she could hear him demand, "How much did you pay him?" Deborah blinked back tears as her chest rose and fell. "I couldn't remember," she said. "For months, hundreds of thousands." I believed I could outlive him. I was mistaken.

Bill paused before her, grazing her arm with his fingers. Though it was a modest gesture, they both felt a spark of electricity. He promised, "I'm going to put this right." A mixture of terror and thankfulness swirled in the depths of her eyes as they flicked to his. She acknowledged, "I'm not sure if I can trust anything anymore." His heart was shattered like glass by the confession.

His voice grew softer as he lowered himself to her eye level. "You can rely on me to keep you safe," he continued. "No more hiding. No more embarrassment. I'll track every dime, install cameras, and recruit the best. I'll locate Pablo Steve as well. Deborah's lips trembled as fear and relief fought within her. "Make me a promise," she muttered. "Be sure to bring me back before it's too late, promise." With a determined gaze, he nodded.

The steam from their drinks curled like ghosts in the faint light when Bill and Leo met that afternoon in a coffee shop in the back alley. Leo pointed to bank statements that connected Deborah's business to offshore accounts in Tortuga after sliding a folder across the table. On security footage, masked men were seen following her on dimly lit sidewalks and setting up cameras in her studio. Anger burning like wildfire in his breast, Bill examined every frame. He said to Leo, "I want names, faces, licenses-everything you have."

Bill's phone buzzed with a fresh message from an unidentified number as he was leaving the store: "Stop digging or she dies." Cold sweat trickled at his temples as he froze on the sidewalk. This time, the threat was clearly visible on his screen, not obscured by shadow. With every instinct telling him that time was running out, he slipped the phone into his pocket.

He sped through traffic and red lights on his way back to Deborah's studio, driven by adrenaline. The glass door was open when he got there, and the fragments glittered on the mat like broken promises. With all his senses alert, he pulled out his revolver and slipped inside. The room smelled somewhat of cedar and coffee spills, and the lights were off. He muttered the name of Deborah.

No response. With his revolver aimed at every shadow, he scanned the room while his pulse screamed in his ears. On her drafting table, he discovered her phone vibrating, with a new, urgent voicemail. He pressed play: a frigid, computerized voice that was distorted. "She vanishes with one misstep." Bill's mouth tightened.

From the back room came the sound of footsteps. He turned and saw Naomi standing at the doorway, her eyes wide with terror and her face pale. "Bill," she exclaimed, her voice shaking. "As soon as I saw your text, I came." He felt a mixture of relief and skepticism. He insisted, "Where is she?" After swallowing, Naomi looked back and muttered, "She's gone." Her GPS has been dead for two hours, and her car is still in the garage.

As Bill took in the information, his chest constricted. He took Naomi's arm and holstered his revolver. He said, looking around the deserted studio for hints, "Tell me everything you know." When Naomi revealed that she had last witnessed Deborah sneaking out to meet someone at a location sent to her phone, her eyes welled up with tears. She refused to identify anyone. Naomi said, "She just told me that it might be her only chance to end it." Bill felt sick to his stomach.

His voice tight and anxious, he took out his phone and contacted Leo. "Look for that address. I require automobiles, license plates, and any documentation pertaining to a meeting with Deborah. After hanging up, he turned to face Naomi. "Remain here and don't move," he said. She gave a tentative but firm nod. After gathering his suitcase, he made his way to the door.

The storm of dread inside him was reflected in the darkening afternoon sky outside, which was covered in accumulating clouds. He jumped in his SUV and slammed the pedal, making sharp twists through the city streets. It felt like a countdown with each red light. Deborah felt as though every inch she gained was a loss of time.

"Meet me at 7 PM," was the text message that rang on his phone once more. Warehouse 23. By themselves. Or she passes away. The location was eerily near the docks. Bill clutched the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. With a start, he opened the glove box and pulled out a flashlight and another pair of gloves.

He relived every memory of Deborah's giggle, her quiet sighs as she drew late into the night, and the way her eyes brightened when he clutched her hand as he raced toward the docks. He promised not to let her down again.

However, his phone rang at Warehouse 23's entryway. The single word "Pablo" caused the caller ID to flicker.

The glass above his head cracked as a bullet flew past the windshield before he could respond.

With his heart in his throat, Bill slapped the brakes as the SUV fishtailed. He scanned the area, trying to find the gunman. Pablo Through the phone's speaker, Steve's loud voice crackled: "You think you can save her? Mr. Black, you have an hour. She will be dust in an hour.