Chapter 8 - The Ghost of Wall Street
Inside, the cabin was a smoking ruin.
Hannah was coughing, leaning against the kitchen counter, rubbing her bruised neck. The trapdoor swung open, and Martha emerged with the twins, safe and unharmed.
"Are you okay?" I rushed to Hannah, grabbing her shoulders.
"I'm... I'm fine," she gasped, wincing as she touched her throat. "What... what was that drone? That wasn't Rossi's gear."
I looked down at the wreckage of the combat drone on the floorboard. Etched into the titanium chassis was a serial number and a crest I hadn't seen in seven years—the personal seal of the United States Department of Defense, Directorate of Black Projects.
It wasn't Salvatore Rossi who had tracked us down.
It was the federal government. And they hadn't come to arrest us—they had come to erase us.
"They didn't want the empire back, Hannah," I said, a cold realization washing over me. "They wanted your father's research. If the Pentagon gets those files, they weaponize pediatric spinal regeneration into super-soldier muscle density programs. Your father died because he refused to let them turn children into weapons."
Hannah stared at the drone, her face draining of all color. "Then... everything my father died for... was going to be stolen."
"Not while I'm breathing," I said, walking over to the satellite communicator. The screen was still blinking, but the signal had stabilized.
"What are you doing?" she asked, walking over to my side.
"We’re going to do something crazy," I said, typing a rapid command string into the console. "We’re going to broadcast your father's research live to every open-source medical server, university hospital, and independent lab across the planet."
Hannah gasped, grabbing my hand. "Victor, no! If you do that, the encryption is gone. Anyone can access it—including governments, corporations, black-market syndicates. You'll lose all leverage!"
"Leverage is for gangsters, Hannah," I said, looking down into her wide, terrified eyes. "You taught me that family isn't something you buy or protect behind stone walls. If my daughters are going to grow up in this world, I want them to grow up in a world where miracles belong to everyone—not just the men with guns."
She stared at me for a long, breathless moment. The anger, the vengeance, the bitterness of the last five years seemed to melt completely out of her frame, leaving only a profound, radiant peace.
"Do it," she whispered softly.
I hit the enter key.
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Upload complete.
Within seconds, the satellite communicator began spitting out endless streams of data packets across the global grid. Dr. Arthur Sterling’s life work was no longer buried in government vaults or locked in my secure drives. It belonged to humanity.
