Chapter 11 - The Open Grave
The steel felt freezing cold against Claire’s trembling palms. She lifted the weapon with both hands, aiming it straight at the center of Roman’s forehead.
Roman didn't flinch. He didn't blink. He simply looked up at her, his eyes hollow, accepting his sentence without a word of protest.
*Click.*
Claire took the safety off. The silence between them was so loud it drowned out the rain.
"You took everything from him," Claire sobbed, the barrel wavering only an inch from his face. "He doesn't even remember his mother’s voice. All he knows is hospital walls and needles. Because of you."
"I know," Roman said softly. "Pull the trigger, Claire. End it."
Claire’s finger tightened against the cold curve of the trigger. Her knuckles went white. A single squeeze, and the man who had authored their nightmare would cease to exist.
A vision flashed in her mind: Mateo laughing in his hospital bed, his small hands tracing the raptor keychain, telling her about the "scary man" who promised he would run again.
Claire let out a ragged, broken gasp. Her arms dropped.
The gun clattered against the concrete floor.
"No," she wept, sliding down the pillar and burying her face in her hands. "Killing you won't bring Elena back. It won't heal Mateo’s spine. It just makes me like you."
Roman let out a long, shuddering breath. He picked the gun up, holstered it, and rose to his feet. He took off his dry, heavy wool coat and gently draped it over Claire’s trembling shoulders. She flinched, but she was too exhausted to push it away.
"Come," Roman said softly, offering his hand. "We have to move Mateo. Tonight. I have a medical transport team in the city. We’ll take him to the estate. It’s fortified. Doran can't breach it."
Claire looked up through her tears, numb and defeated. "And then what?"
"Then I finish Doran," Roman said, his eyes turning back into black ice. "Once and for all. So neither of you ever has to hide again."
Twenty minutes later, Roman’s armored black SUV pulled up to the pediatric entrance of Bellweather Children’s Hospital. Wesley was waiting in the lobby with four heavily armed operatives dressed in discreet tactical suits under long coats.
"The private ambulance is ready out back," Wesley reported as Roman and Claire entered. "Dr. Chen is prepping Mateo for transport right now."
Roman nodded, his jaw set like granite. "Good. Clear the perimeter. Wesley, get Claire and the boy to the estate. I’m going to Doran’s club on 8th Avenue."
Claire turned, her eyes wide with sudden panic. "You’re going alone?"
"He came after you, Claire," Roman said, looking at her with a deadly calm that sent shivers down her spine. "Nobody threatens my debts."
He turned toward the glass doors leading to the rainy street. He stepped outside into the downpour, reaching into his pocket for his car keys.
Suddenly, his encrypted satellite phone buzzed violently against his ribs.
Roman pulled it out, expecting Wesley or his warehouse captains. Instead, the screen displayed an unknown incoming video call.
Roman accepted the call and held the phone to his face.
The screen flickered, revealing the grainy, brightly lit interior of Room 412.
Mateo was asleep on the hospital bed, his breathing slow and even under the blue sheets, the new carbon-fiber braces resting beside his pillow.
Standing right over the sleeping child was Patrick Doran.
Doran was grinning into the camera, chewing on the stub of an unlit cigar. In his right hand, resting gently against the seven-year-old boy’s temple, was a chrome revolver equipped with a long, cylindrical silencer.
Doran leaned in close to the lens, his voice a low, mocking hiss through the speaker:
May you like
"Did you really think I didn't have someone on the inside, Roman? You’re thirty seconds too late. Walk into this room, drop your guns, and get on your knees... or the kid dies before you hit the elevator."
The screen went black.
