Chapter 3 - The Respectable Man
The man standing on the porch of the Iron Scythes clubhouse looked as though he had stepped directly out of a corporate real estate brochure.
He was in his late thirties, remarkably handsome, with clean-shaven cheeks, a neatly trimmed jawline, and thick brown hair styled with expensive pomade. He wore an ivory cashmere sweater over a crisp, blue button-down shirt, dark tailored trousers, and leather loafers that were currently being ruined by the gravel mud.
Behind him, idling silently in the rain, was a brand-new, metallic-grey Porsche Cayenne. The hazard lights flashed rhythmically, reflecting off his gold signet ring and the sleek face of his Apple Watch.
He wiped a drop of rain off his cheek with an silk handkerchief, offering Dutch a quick, practiced, high-energy smile—the kind of smile used by salesmen who were accustomed to closing loans before the client finished their coffee.
"Evening, gentlemen," the man said, his tone brisk, professional, and slightly patronizing. He didn't look at the patched leather vests; he looked past Dutch’s shoulder into the dim, amber-lit interior of the garage. "Sorry to bother you folks at this hour. Terrible night out there."
Dutch didn't move from the center of the doorway. He stood six-foot-six, blocking two-thirds of the frame, his hands tucked loosely into his belt loops.
"Can I help you with something?" Dutch asked.
"Yes, actually," the man said, taking a half-step forward as if expecting Dutch to automatically yield the doorway. Dutch didn't twitch. The man stopped, his smile faltering for a microsecond before snapping back into place. "I'm looking for my step-daughter. Her name is Mia. Seven years old, blond hair. She... well, she slipped out of her bedroom about an hour ago during the thunderstorm."
Mike stepped up behind Dutch, his massive frame filling the remainder of the doorframe.
"Little girl running around in the woods at midnight in a thunderstorm?" Mike asked, his voice low and heavy. "Sounds like a bad situation."
"It’s an absolute nightmare," the man agreed, sighing deeply and rubbing his temples with a dramatic gesture of parental exhaustion. "She’s a sweet kid, but she has... well, severe emotional issues. Attachment disorders, wild imaginations. She’s been in therapy since her mother passed away last year. She gets these episodes where she makes up terrible stories, hides in dark places, steals things... anyway, she took off into the woods behind our development."
He pointed a manicured hand toward the dark ridge of timber that separated the industrial park from the gated, multi-million-dollar housing development on the hill known as The Crest.
"I saw a light down here and thought I’d check," Richard continued, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a leather wallet. He slid out a crisp hundred-dollar bill and held it out toward Mike. "If she came through here, or if you seen her, just point me in the right direction. I’ll handle it from here. Thanks for your time."
Mike looked at the hundred-dollar bill. He didn't reach for it. He didn't even blink.
"What’s your name, mister?" Mike asked.
"Richard. Richard Sterling," the man said, his tone sharpening just a fraction, the practiced warmth beginning to fray at the edges like cheap polyester. "I'm a senior managing director over at Sterling & Croft Financial downtown. Look, I really don't have time to chit-chat. My wife—my late wife—left me in charge of Mia’s trust, and I take my duty very seriously. Is she in there or not?"
From the shadows near the leather couch, a low, wet sound rustled across the floorboards.
Goliath stepped into the light.
He didn't make a sound. He walked with a slow, deliberate stride that carried all ninety pounds of his scarred weight directly toward the door. He stopped six inches behind Mike’s boots, his broad chest pushed forward, his tail level with his spine, perfectly rigid.
Richard Sterling looked down at the pitbull.
A flash of intense, burning disgust crossed Richard’s face—a subtle, involuntary twitch of the nose and lip that lasted less than a second before he smoothed his expression back into polite concern.
"God, what a grotesque animal," Richard muttered under his breath, taking a half-step back onto the wet porch steps. "Is that thing dangerous?"
"Only to things that deserve it," Mike said quietly.
Inside the back office, the pine door opened two inches.
Doc didn't bring Mia out, but through the crack in the door, the small girl could be seen standing behind Doc’s leg, holding the bandaged puppy against her ribs.
Richard’s eyes flicked past Mike’s shoulder.
He saw her.
In that single instant, the mask didn't just slip—it fell completely off Richard Sterling’s face.
The polite, worried step-father vanished. His eyes narrowed into two sharp, dark slits. His jaw locked, and a deep, crimson flush rose from the collar of his silk shirt up to his cheekbones. His left hand clenched into a tight, white-knuckled fist at his side.
"Mia," Richard said. His voice was no longer warm or exhausted. It was flat, hard, and laced with a terrifying, absolute authority that made the little girl instantly duck her head behind Doc’s leg. "Get out here. Now."
Mia didn't move. She began to cry, silent tears streaming down her pale cheeks as she squeezed the bandaged puppy closer to her chest.
"I said move!" Richard snapped, stepping forward, his arm coming up to push past Dutch. "You have caused enough trouble tonight, you little—"
May you like
Richard never finished the sentence.
Because Goliath moved.
