Chapter 7 - The Uncle’s Ledger
"You always were too sentimental about the boys, Adrian," Vance said, his rasping voice echoing through the humid, violet-lit air of the subterranean garden.
He walked with slow, deliberate steps toward us, his weapon raised, the black suppressor pointed directly at Adrian’s chest.
"Vance," Adrian said, stepping slightly in front of me—an instinctual, protective gesture that caught me entirely off guard. "What is the meaning of this manifest? I gave explicit orders that the boys were to be relocated to our estate in Switzerland under private security detail."
Vance let out a short, bark of laughter. "Switzerland? You really thought you were going to retire to an Alpine chalet with four noisy kids after selling Eleanor's work?"
"She was your sister!" Adrian snapped, his tone laced with disbelief and mounting fury.
"She was my sister," Vance agreed, his eyes cold and unblinking. "And she spent ten years wasting her talent on a corporate husband who didn't understand the real value of what she had created. Do you know how much the buyers in Colombia are paying for the complete V-7 live culture and the rights to the genetic lineage, Adrian? Eighty-five million dollars."
Vance gestured with his gun toward the rows of glowing acrylic containers.
"They don't want a retired husband coming to check on the research in Switzerland. And they certainly don't want four boys growing up to ask questions about their mother’s estate or their father’s sudden disappearance. The facility in Colombia isn't a school, Adrian. It's an isolated institutional ward. They'll never leave it."
My stomach turned to ice.
Adrian had been playing a high-stakes dangerous game, believing he was protecting his family's legacy while executing an exit strategy—completely blind to the fact that his head of security, his own brother-in-law, had systematically usurped control of the operation right under his nose.
"You scuttled the caregivers," I realized aloud, looking at Vance. "You deliberately made the boys look unmanageable and crazy so Adrian would agree to send them away."
"It wasn't hard," Vance said, offering a sickening, thin smile. "Four traumatized kids, isolated in a stone mansion, hearing noises at night because I left the sub-level vents open on purpose. Every time a nanny ran away screaming, it was another nail in the coffin. Another piece of evidence that Adrian couldn't handle his own children."
"You monster," Adrian spat, taking a step toward Vance.
"Stay right where you are, Adrian," Vance warned, raising the gun slightly. "I've spent four years setting up this exit. The buyers arrive at the private airfield in Groton at six tomorrow morning. The truck is already outside loading the primary culture tanks from the secondary bay."
Suddenly, a loud, heavy THUMP echoed down from the ceiling above.
The signal.
Evan had dropped the book in the kitchen.
Someone was coming down into the cellar.
Vance’s eyes flicked upward toward the ceiling for a fraction of a second.
It was the only opening we were going to get.
Adrian didn't hesitate. He lunged forward with all his weight, slamming his broad shoulder straight into Vance’s chest.
POP. POP.
The suppressed gunshot sounded like heavy cardboard boxes snapping in the humid room. A plastic growing container behind me shattered, spraying warm, nutrient-rich water and purple orchid fragments across the epoxy floor.
"Nia! Get out!" Adrian screamed as he wrestled Vance down onto the wet floor, his fingers clawing for the hand holding the weapon.
I didn't argue. I turned, leaped over a shattered glass table, and sprinted toward the double glass doors.
I hit the push bar, burst out into the long whitewashed corridor, and ran at top speed toward the iron sub-level exit door.
Behind me, the sound of tearing metal and heavy, breathless cursing echoed down the hall as Adrian fought his brother-in-law on the slippery floor.
I reached the iron exit door, slapped the release bar, and burst through into the dark, cold wine cellar.
Standing in the cellar alcove, holding a heavy iron tire iron in his small hands, was eleven-year-old Evan.
His face was deathly pale, his arms shaking under the weight of the iron bar.
"Nia!" Evan gasped, his eyes wide with horror. "I heard gunshots!"
"Evan, we have to move now!" I yelled, grabbing him by the shoulder and dragging him toward the main cellar stairs. "Vance has taken over the house! We need to get your brothers and get out of here!"
"Where's my dad?" Evan cried, resisting my pull for a fraction of a second, looking back at the dark iron door.
"He's fighting Vance," I said, my heart hammering against my ribs. "He tried to stop him, Evan. He didn't know about the South America transfer. He was trying to protect you."
Evan’s eyes widened, a sudden, blinding flash of emotional confusion washing over his face.
"My dad... he tried to stop him?"
"Yes! Now move!"
We sprinted up the cold stone stairs, bursting through the butler's pantry door and into the bright, sunlit kitchen.
Caleb, Noah, and Luke were huddled together near the breakfast island, holding each other's hands, their faces pale with terror. Luke was clutching Mr. Chomps to his chest so hard the stuffed dinosaur's seams were straining.
"Nia!" Caleb yelled, rushing forward. "What's happening? There are two men in black coats setting up locked barricades at the front drive!"
"We're leaving," I said, running over to the pantry and grabbing four winter coats from the hooks. "Put these on. Right now!"
"Where's Dad?" Luke whimpered, tears spilling over his small cheeks. "I want Dad!"
"Your dad is making sure we can get out, Luke," I said, crouching down and shoving his arms into his heavy blue parka, zipping it up with frantic speed. "We have to go through the back gardens to the service road."
"The service road is locked!" Caleb said, his voice cracking with panic. "There's a heavy gate with a padlocked chain!"
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I reached into my pocket, pulling out the small leather-bound notebook I had snatched from the table in the sub-level during the struggle—Eleanor Vale’s original research diary.
"We aren't going through the main gate," I said, my voice cold and focused as I looked at the four boys. "We're going through the old greenhouse garden."
