Chapter 2 - The Crimson Seal
“Mom! MOM!”
The General’s tactical training kicked in instantly, bypassing the sheer psychological devastation ripping through his mind. He dropped to his knees beside Evelyn, his fingers instantly finding the carotid artery in her neck. Her pulse was erratic, thready, like the fluttering of a dying moth’s wings. Her lips were already tinting with an ominous, pale cyanosis.
“Respiratory arrest!” Marcus barked, his voice carrying the authority of a field commander in a war zone. He whipped his smartphone from his pocket, hit speed dial for his private military detail, and roared into the speaker. “Major Hayes! Code Red at the quarters! Medical evacuation immediately! Alert Walter Reed Trauma One! Move!”
Across the dining room, Victoria stood frozen, the color draining from her face as she realized the legal ramifications of what had just unfolded. “Marcus… she’s just putting on an act… she wants attention—”
Marcus didn't even look at her. “If she dies, Victoria,” he said, his voice flat, icy, and deadlier than a drawn blade, “no lawyer on this planet will save you from the prison cell I put you in.”
Within three minutes, the heavy oak doors of the mansion were kicked open. Four armed military policemen entered, followed by two combat medics carrying a trauma jump-kit. They went to work with ruthless efficiency—inserting an oral airway, bagging oxygen, securing IV lines into Evelyn’s brittle veins.
“She’s in severe bronchospasm, General,” the lead medic reported, sweating despite the winter draft pouring through the foyer. “Signs of aspirated fluid and hypothermia. We have to transport now.”
“Go,” Marcus ordered. “I’m right behind you.”
As the medics wheeled the gurney out into the raging storm, Marcus turned to Major Hayes, his most trusted aide-de-camp. The Major took one look at the shattered crystal, the bowl of rotting scraps on the floor, and the disheveled Mrs. Vance.
“Hayes,” Marcus commanded coldly.
“Sir!”
“Mrs. Vance is confined to the west suite. Post two armed guards outside her door. Confiscate her phone, her laptop, and her keys. She is not to contact her father, her attorney, or the press until I say so. Treat this residence as an active crime scene.”
“You can’t do this!” Victoria shrieked, backing away as two hulking MP officers flanked her. “My father is a United States Senator! You’re abusing your command, Marcus! You’re a monster!”
“Take her away,” Marcus said softly.
He didn't follow the ambulance immediately. Instead, drawn by a dark, agonizing instinct, Marcus walked down the long, dim hallway leading to the servants' quarters at the rear of the estate.
The room Victoria had shoved Evelyn into was freezing. The radiator clanked feebly, barely generating enough heat to cut through the mountain frost. A single cot stood in the center, draped in thin, scratchy army-surplus blankets. There was no television. No framed pictures on the wall. Nothing except a small wooden bedside table.
Marcus walked toward the small closet. His mind was spinning. *“She found you in a cardboard box… she’s not your mother…”*
Was it true? All his memories—the small apartment in Chicago, the endless shifts Evelyn worked as a hospital janitor to buy his school supplies, the way she stayed up all night sewing his ROTC uniforms, the proud tears when he pinned on his first lieutenant bars—was all of it built upon a foundation of deceit?
He pulled open the closet door. Piled in the corner, hidden beneath an old wool winter coat, sat an olive-drab steel ammunition can from the Vietnam era.
Marcus knelt, his heart pounding a furious rhythm against his ribs. The latch on the ammo box was rusted, but with a hard yank, it popped open with a metallic screech.
Inside lay no gold, no jewelry. There was a stack of letters tied with faded blue ribbon, an old set of military dog tags with names he didn't recognize, and an official U.S. Army medical dossier stamped with deep red ink: **TOP SECRET – CLASSIFIED BY ORDER OF THE DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE, 1974.**
Tucked into the dossier was a black-and-white photograph. It depicted a stunningly beautiful young woman with fierce, intelligent eyes and dark wavy hair, wearing the uniform of an Army medical research captain. In her arms, wrapped in a blanket, was a newborn baby.
Marcus turned the photograph over. Written in faded blue ink, shaky and rushed, were words that stopped his breath:
*“To Evelyn: If you are reading this, they have found me. Keep him safe. His name is Marcus. The bloodline must not fall into Sterling’s hands. Love him for me. He is Clara’s only hope.”*
Sterling.
May you like
Marcus stared at the name. Victoria’s maiden name was Sterling. Her father was Senator Richard Sterling, Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee.
***
