Chapter 12 - The Penthouse Suite of St. Jude Memorial
The private sixth-floor executive wing of St. Jude Memorial Hospital did not smell like sickness.
It smelled like polished mahogany, expensive French lavender room spray, and the sterile, humming electricity of state-of-the-art medical monitoring equipment.
The double doors at the end of the hallway were guarded by two armed men in charcoal suits who nodded respectfully as Marcus shoved me forward.
We passed through a spacious anteroom lined with leather armchairs and a gleaming wet bar, stepping directly into the VIP recovery suite.
The room was massive, featuring floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the snow-covered skyline of Boston.
In the center of the room stood an advanced hospital bed surrounded by silent heart-lung monitors, intravenous drip stands, and continuous ECG readouts pulsing with a steady, rhythmic green line.
Lying against the propped-up pillows was Ronald Sterling.
He looked older and frailer than I had imagined from the syndicate files—his hair snow-white, his skin translucent and paper-thin, his chest rising and falling beneath a pristine white hospital gown.
Yet, despite his frail appearance, his eyes were still sharp, cold, and predatory as he turned his head to look at us.
“Boss,” Marcus said, stepping forward and placing the heavy black Pelican case gently on the bedside table.
“We secured the box from the safe house. And we brought the widow along, just like you ordered.”
Sterling slowly shifted his gaze from the Pelican case to me.
He didn't speak for a long moment.
Instead, he reached up with a trembling, IV-bruised hand, adjusting the oxygen cannula resting beneath his nose.
“Clara Vance,” Sterling rasped, his voice sounding like dry leaves scraping across concrete.
“The brilliant little archivist who almost ruined us five years ago. And now, the widow of my most stubborn encryption architect.”
I stood tall, keeping my hands resting protectively over my eight-month pregnant belly, staring back at him with icy defiance.
“You murdered my husband, Ronald,” I said, my voice steady and clear in the quiet room.
“You poisoned him slowly over months just to silence him.”
Sterling let out a dry, rattling cough that sounded like a laugh.
“Liam made his own choices, my dear,” Sterling replied smoothly, waving a frail hand dismissively.
“He thought he could outsmart the syndicate, hide behind a fake identity, and play house with you. But nobody walks away from the Sterling family. And nobody keeps our secrets buried.”
He gestured toward the Pelican case resting on the table.
“Now… open the case. Give me the encryption keys, and I might consider letting you live long enough to give birth to that baby before we send you both to join Liam.”
I looked down at the Pelican case, then back up at Sterling’s chest.
Beneath that white hospital gown, beating steadily within his ribs, was Liam’s heart.
The biological Trojan horse.
The clock on the wall read 12:15 p.m.
May you like
The transplant surgery had finished thirty minutes ago.
The countdown had officially begun.
