“Take Dr.
Thorne into custody,” I said smoothly.
“Ensure his medical license isn’t just revoked—ensure he faces twenty years in federal prison for treasonous human trafficking and medical fraud.
Let him rot in a cell where he belongs.”
“And the family, sir?
The father and the eight brothers?”
I looked down at my daughter one last time as she slept peacefully inside the warm glass shell.
“Arthur Montgomery thought he was a king because he bought judges and intimidated local cops,” I said, turning away from the incubator.
“It’s time to show him what happens when you wage war against the sun.”
Three hours later.
5:45 a.m.
The sky above the city was turning a pale, bruise-colored gray as the storm finally cleared.
Inside a subterranean, soundproof holding facility beneath an unmarked commercial skyscraper downtown, Arthur Montgomery and his eight sons sat strapped to heavy steel chairs arranged in a semi-circle.
The room was lit by a single overhead halogen lamp.
There were no windows.
