It was antique, impossibly heavy, and completely tarnished, as if it hadn't been polished in years. The silver chain was broken, the links snapped halfway up.
Duke turned his back slightly to the police, shielding the locket in his massive palm. With his thumb, he pressed the small release catch on the side.
The locket sprang open.
There were no photographs inside. Instead, engraved into the solid silver interior of both halves, was a deeply intricate, custom crest. A shield flanked by two hawks, resting over a banner of Latin text.
Duke's breath hitched.
He knew that crest. Anyone who had lived in the state of Illinois for more than a decade knew that crest. He had seen it on the gates of private estates on the North Shore. He had seen it embossed on the side of skyscrapers downtown. He had seen it on the philanthropic wings of the city's largest hospitals.
It was the Sterling family crest.
One of the wealthiest, most powerful, and most notoriously private billionaire families in the entire country.
Duke looked down at the filthy, trembling seven-year-old girl sitting on the pavement. A girl who was supposed to be a nameless, troubled ward of the state. A girl who was currently wearing a dirty cardigan and torn socks.
He slowly closed his hand over the antique silver locket, slipping it deep into the front pocket of his jeans.
He stood up and looked past the sergeant, locking eyes with Rick. The skinny man was already sitting in the back of the police cruiser. The door was open. Rick was watching Duke, and the smug, confident smile was back on his face. Rick tapped the side of his own head, a mocking salute.
This wasn't a random kidnapping.
Duke felt the cold, hard weight of the locket pressing against his thigh. He looked at the fake guardianship papers in the sergeant's hand, and then back to the smirking driver in the cruiser.
Duke closed his hand over the silver locket and looked at the smirking driver in the back of the cruiser, realizing this wasn't a kidnapping—it was a delivery.
Duke slipped the heavy silver locket deep into the front pocket of his jeans before the officers turned back around.
The 43rd Precinct was exactly like every other police station in the city: bathed in flickering fluorescent light, smelling faintly of floor wax and stale coffee, and echoing with the ambient noise of ringing phones and radio static.
Duke sat rigidly in a molded plastic chair in the corner of the busy waiting room. He hadn't moved in forty-five minutes. Beside him, Mia was curled into a tiny ball, her head resting heavily against his thick bicep. She had exhausted herself crying and was now drifting in and out of a shallow, terrified sleep. Her small, scraped hands still maintained a death grip on the heavy leather of his riding jacket.
Every time a door opened or a heavy set of footsteps walked past, Mia flinched, pulling herself tighter against him.
Duke didn't try to pry her off. He just kept his massive hand resting lightly on her back, feeling the rapid, bird-like thrum of her heartbeat.
"You're safe, kid," he murmured quietly. "Nobody's taking you anywhere."
A few yards away, the desk sergeant was arguing with the arresting officers. Duke watched them closely. He had spent enough time around the system to know when the gears were turning against him. The police didn't know what to do with the situation. They had a bleeding suspect in a holding cell, a massive biker refusing to leave the lobby, and a terrified seven-year-old girl who matched the photo on perfectly forged state transfer documents.
Duke pressed his hand against his denim pocket. The silver locket was cold against his leg.
Ward of the state. That’s what the paperwork had said. An orphan with severe behavioral issues. A ghost in the system, ready to be swallowed up by a private facility where no one would ever ask questions.
But wards of the state didn't carry solid silver heirlooms engraved with billionaire family crests.
The heavy glass doors of the precinct hissed open.
A man walked into the lobby, instantly bringing the chaotic energy of the room to a halt. He didn't belong in a suburban police station, and his posture made it clear he knew it. He wore a flawless, charcoal-gray tailored suit, a silk tie, and polished Italian leather shoes that clicked sharply against the scuffed linoleum. He carried a slim, expensive-looking leather briefcase.
He didn't look around the waiting room. He didn't look at the drunks on the benches or the exhausted families waiting for news. He walked straight past the dividing rope and approached the highest-ranking officer on the floor—the precinct captain, who had just stepped out of his office.
"Captain," the man said smoothly, his voice carrying a practiced, authoritative edge. He reached into his breast pocket and slid a thick, embossed business card across the high desk. "My name is Arthur Vance. I am the senior legal counsel for Apex Care Solutions, as well as the appointed legal advocate for the child your officers currently have in the lobby."
Duke narrowed his eyes, tracking the man’s every movement.
The captain looked at the card, then down at the manila folder sitting on the desk. "Mr. Vance. Your driver, Mr. Stanton, is currently in a holding cell. He had a child locked in the trunk of a sedan with zip ties on the floorboards. You want to explain that to me?"
"A terrible, regrettable misunderstanding, Captain," Vance said, his face arranging itself into a mask of perfectly rehearsed corporate concern. "Mr. Stanton is a medical transport specialist, but he was overwhelmed. The child, Mia, suffers from extreme trauma and violently unpredictable behavioral episodes. She attempted to throw herself into moving traffic. Mr. Stanton made a poor, panicked decision to secure her in the only lockable compartment available to prevent her from killing herself. He has already been terminated from our company for this protocol violation."
Vance popped the latches on his leather briefcase and pulled out a stack of crisp, notarized documents. He slid them across the counter.
"However," Vance continued smoothly, tapping the papers, "Mr. Stanton's poor judgment does not negate the fact that Mia is a ward of the state, and Apex Care Solutions holds the exclusive, court-ordered mandate to transport her to our secure psychiatric facility in Willow Creek. Here is the judge's signature. Here is the state seal. Here is the medical conservatorship authorization."
The captain picked up the papers, his jaw tightening as he read them.
Duke felt Mia stir against his arm. She was waking up.
"I appreciate your officers keeping her safe," Vance said, checking a gold watch on his wrist. "But she is deeply disturbed and requires immediate psychiatric medication that she has now missed. I have a private, medically equipped transport van idling outside. I am here to take custody of her and remove this burden from your department."
The captain sighed heavily. He tapped the documents against the desk and looked over at Duke.
"Officer Ramirez," the captain called out. "Go get the girl."
Ramirez, the young female officer from the intersection, approached Duke and Mia with a hesitant expression.
Duke didn't move. He didn't uncross his arms.
"Sir," Ramirez said softly. "You've done a good thing today. You saved her life. But the lawyer has a court order. Child Protective Services already signed off on the transfer. We have to let her go with him."
"No," Duke said, his voice a low, heavy rumble that vibrated in his chest.
Ramirez blinked. "Excuse me?"
Duke stood up. He was six-foot-four and built like a freight train. When he stood, he cast a long, broad shadow over the plastic chairs. He stepped squarely in front of Mia, completely shielding her from the room.
"I'm not leaving," Duke said loudly, ensuring his voice carried across the lobby to where Arthur Vance was standing. "And she's not leaving either."
Vance turned around, a condescending smirk playing on his lips. "And who are you exactly? A concerned citizen? You did your civic duty, biker. Go home."
Duke ignored him, locking eyes with the captain. "I was assaulted with a deadly weapon today. That driver swung a solid iron pipe at my skull. I want to press formal, felony assault charges."
The captain frowned. "We already have him on reckless endangerment."
"I don't care," Duke countered, stepping closer to the desk. "I want him charged with assault with a deadly weapon. I want to make a formal, sworn statement. I want a detective assigned to take my deposition. I want to fill out the paperwork, and I want it filed right now."
Vance’s smug expression faltered. He stepped toward the desk. "Captain, this is a delay tactic. This man has no legal standing—"
"I am the victim of a violent crime," Duke said, his voice rising, cutting the lawyer off completely. "If this department refuses to take my sworn statement and process my felony complaint, I will have the local news here in fifteen minutes asking why the police are protecting a kidnapper."