Chapter 5 - The Snake in the Parlor
The rain began again at midnight, washing over the floor-to-ceiling glass of the penthouse like tears.
Dr. Sterling, my personal physician who had been sworn to absolute secrecy under a multi-million-dollar non-disclosure agreement, completed his examination of Leo in the guest bedroom. He walked into the living room, stepping cautiously, his eyes wide with a mixture of professional awe and utter confusion.
“His vitals are stable,” Sterling whispered, taking off his stethoscope. “The boy is malnourished, suffering from mild vitamin deficiencies and minor skin abrasions, but otherwise... normal. However, Charles, I ran a quick bio-electric scan on your spine before I examined him.”
“And?” I asked, standing by the bar, pouring two fingers of amber scotch.
“Your spinal cord... it isn't just healed,” Sterling said, his hands trembling as he held up a digital scan on his tablet. “The scar tissue from the 2018 impact has been completely replaced by fresh, high-density neural tissue. It’s as if your nervous system was completely rebooted and upgraded. Medical science has no framework for this. None.”
“Medical science doesn't know everything, Arthur,” I said, taking a slow sip of the scotch. “Where is Leo?”
“He’s sleeping,” Sterling replied. “The physical effort of what he did to you took a massive toll on his metabolic system. His core temperature dropped two degrees immediately after the event. Whatever he does, it costs him calories and physical endurance.”
I thought about the bruised hands, the tired eyes of that eight-year-old boy standing in the ballroom. He had emptied his own reservoir of energy to give me back my life, knowing I was his only hope to save his parents.
I walked down the quiet hallway and pushed open the door to the guest bedroom.
Leo was curled up in the center of the massive king-sized bed, swimming in a set of soft cotton pajamas my staff had brought up from the hotel boutique. The gold pocket watch sat on the nightstand beside him, its cover open, ticking softly in the dark.
I sat on the edge of the mattress. I reached out and gently smoothed his dark hair away from his forehead.
He stirred slightly, his amber-green eyes opening halfway. “Uncle Charles?”
“I’m here, Leo,” I whispered.
“Did I do it right?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep. “Did I fix you?”
“You did more than fix me, Leo,” I said, my voice tightening with an emotion I hadn't felt in decades. “You gave me back my strength. And tomorrow, I’m going to use that strength to bring your mother and father home.”
Leo’s small fingers reached out from beneath the duvet, locking around my thumb with surprisingly firm strength. “Don't let the grey masks hurt Papa.”
“Nobody is going to hurt your family ever again,” I said. “I promise you, on the Whitmore name.”
I waited until his breathing slowed back into the deep rhythm of sleep before I stood up and walked out into the corridor.
Marcus was waiting for me near the front door, wearing an all-black tactical suit under his long overcoat. Beside him stood six men—former Special Forces operatives who had formed my private security detail for the last five years. They weren't corporate guards. They were men I paid millions to ensure my safety in an increasingly hostile world.
“Senator Vance accepted the meeting,” Marcus reported, holding up a secure tablet. “He was rattled when I mentioned Project Lazarus. He tried to play it off as a joke, but his assistant confirmed he cleared his schedule for eleven o'clock tomorrow night at the 14th Street facility.”
“He thinks he’s walking into a negotiation,” I said, checking the action on a silver-plated 9mm pistol I pulled from the wall safe—a weapon I hadn't carried since my days in the military. “He thinks I’m a desperate cripple who miraculously regained his legs and wants to buy into his fountain of youth.”
“And what is he actually walking into?” Marcus asked.
May you like
I racked the slide of the pistol with a sharp, metallic click.
“An execution of his empire.”
