Arthur fell back against the wall, his chest heaving, tears of panic finally welling in his aged eyes.
His eight sons cowered behind him, stripped of their power, their money, and their illusions of invulnerability in less than two minutes.
Then, my satellite phone vibrated in my palm.
It was a automated security alert from my personal intelligence feed.
I unlocked the screen, expecting to see the perimeter security logs confirming that my tactical teams had secured the hospital grounds.
Instead, a high-definition video file played automatically.
It was live-retrieved surveillance footage from St.
Jude’s Memorial Hospital, captured precisely two hours ago—thirty minutes before I arrived.
The footage showed the rear service corridor outside Clara’s ICU room.
In the frame stood Dr.
Aris Thorne—the solemn, sympathetic trauma surgeon who had just broken my heart with the news of my daughter’s death.
Standing opposite him was the fourth Montgomery brother, Lucas—the quiet, cunning brother who managed the family’s pharmaceutical supply chains.
In the video, Lucas handed Dr.
Thorne a thick, yellow Manila envelope.
