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The silver locket slipped from Liam’s small, dirt-smudged fingers and hit the mahogany floor with a hollow, agonizing thud. / Chapter 7 / 8

Chapter 7 - The Final Stand

Her hair was matted with dried blood, her lips split and bruised, and her hands securely bound behind her with thick industrial zip-ties. Standing beside her, holding a suppressed pistol to her temple, was one of my father’s elite mercenaries.

Two other guards patrolled the perimeter near the exit, talking quietly.

My heart hammered against my ribs, but my hands were dead steady. Training from my brief military academy youth before Wall Street consumed me kicked in. I breathed out slowly, aligning the holographic sight of the carbine.

Pfft. Pfft.

Two suppressed rounds punched through the humid air with the sound of a heavy stapler. The two perimeter guards dropped instantly without a sound, collapsing into the puddles of rainwater on the concrete floor.

The guard holding the gun to Emma’s head whipped around, panic flashing in his eyes. “What the—”

Pfft.

A third round caught him squarely in the chest plate, sending him spinning backward into a stack of wooden crates.

I sprinted across the concrete floor, dropping the carbine to a sling as I reached Emma’s side. I dropped to my knees, slashing the zip-ties with my pocket knife.

“Emma!” I gasped, catching her as she slumped forward.

Her eyelids fluttered open. Her ice-blue eyes—the exact same shade as our twin boys—focused slowly on my face. A weak, bittersweet smile touched her bruised lips.

“Jason... you came,” she whispered, her voice raspy and thin. “I told you... I told you they would find you.”

“I’m so sorry,” I choked out, wrapping my arms around her trembling body, pulling her close against my chest. “I’m sorry for walking away. I’m sorry for everything. The boys are safe. They’re outside in the car.”

Emma let out a ragged sob of pure relief, burying her face in my shoulder. “William... your father... he found us three days ago. He said I had no right to raise your heirs. He said—*”

CLAP. CLAP. CLAP.

The hollow sound of slow, mocking applause echoed through the cavernous warehouse. I whipped around, pulling Emma behind me and raising my weapon.

Stepping out from behind a towering shipping container, flanked by four more heavily armed mercenaries, was my father. He wasn't holding a gun. He was holding a remote detonator with a blinking red light.

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The burner phone in my hand felt heavy, like a slab of cold iron pulled from a sunken ship. Across the line, Marcus let out a breath that sounded like a low whistle escaping a pressure valve. Nineteen years of rust, nineteen years of school plays, quiet dinners, and ledger sheets—all of it dissolved in the space of a single heartbeat.

The burner phone in my hand felt heavy, like a slab of cold iron pulled...

The man in the back of the Bentley was not a stranger, though it took me three agonizing seconds to place the face behind the silver-trimmed beard. Arthur Vance. The reclusive billionaire shipping tycoon, corporate sniper, and my father’s oldest, most estranged rival.

The man in the back of the Bentley was not a stranger, though it took me...

The ink on the medical schedule wasn't standard printer black. It was darker, heavier, pressed down with the kind of deliberate malice that only a fountain pen could deliver. I stared at the signature at the bottom of the page, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

The ink on the medical schedule wasn't standard printer black. It was da...

And standing right beside him, holding a small tablet, was Claire.

“Touching. Truly touching,” my father sneered, stepping closer, a sick, twisted grin distorting his scarred face. “A family reunion right before the final execution.”

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