Chapter 5 - Midnight at the ClinicThe room spun. The walls of my reality crumbled into ash.
My father was alive.
The man who had taught me how to shoot, the man whose military service I had emulated, the man whose funeral I had wept at eight years ago—he was alive, hiding in the shadows, and had committed the ultimate, unforgivable atrocity against my wife.
"Where is he?" I whispered, my voice dripping with pure venom.
"I... I don't know!" Vance wept. "He only communicates through encrypted satellite phones! He paid Margaret and Caleb to manage the home! He ordered Emily’s death because she discovered his true identity in the financial records! She realized the baby wasn't yours, Daniel... she was going to expose him to the Department of Justice!"
Everything made terrifying, horrific sense now.
Margaret wasn't just trying to steal a military trust fund. She was covering up the fact that her supposedly dead husband was still alive, directing a global criminal network from the shadows, and had silenced Emily when she threatened to bring his dark empire down.
"And the baby upstairs in my house?" I asked, my blood running cold. "Is he..."
"He's Arthur's biological son," Vance whispered, eyes wide with fear. "Arthur wanted the child raised as your legal heir so the money could transfer seamlessly through the family trust without triggering IRS red flags."
I gripped my pistol tightly, every fiber of my being screaming for retribution.
Before I could say another word, the sound of heavy boots echoed down the clinic corridor.
Tactical entry.
The glass door shattered inward as three men dressed in unmarked black tactical gear rushed into the office, submachine guns raised.
"DROP THE WEAPON!" one of the mercenaries barked in a thick Eastern European accent.
I didn't hesitate. I threw Vance forward into the line of fire, dive-rolling behind the heavy mahogany desk as a hail of suppressed gunfire shredded the leather chair and plaster walls.
Vance screamed once before going silent, cut down by his own employer's hit squad.
I drew my sidearm from behind the desk, firing three precise shots through the drywall. The heavy 9mm rounds struck the first gunman in the chest, dropping him instantly.
The second mercenary advanced, but I swept his legs out from under him, slammed my knife into his tactical vest seam, and brought my elbow down hard onto his windpipe.
The third operator raised his rifle, but I spun, using his fallen comrade as a human shield, and fired two rounds into his helmet visor.
Silence returned to the room, thick with the smell of cordite and copper.
I leaned over the team leader's body and pulled off his tactical radio.
A voice crackled through the speaker—a voice I hadn't heard in eight years. Deep, gravelly, and terrifyingly familiar.
"Team Leader, report. Is the soldier dead?"
It was my father.
May you like
I picked up the radio and pressed the press-to-talk button.
"Hello, Dad," I said, my voice as cold as absolute zero. "I'm coming for you."
