Chapter 3
Five years ago, Ethan Cross had walked away from the CIA’s most elite strike force after a mission went rogue in Eastern Europe.
He had buried his weapons, changed his name, and sought redemption in the gentle love of Clara, an investigative reporter for the Chicago Tribune.
For half a decade, he had lived a peaceful life, cooking dinner every night and looking forward to becoming a father.
Now, that paradise had been shattered into bloody pieces.
"Sarah, I need twenty minutes alone with Clara before your forensic team locks down her room," Ethan requested softly.
Sarah sighed deeply, rubbing her temples before nodding. "Ten minutes. The precinct captain is already taking calls from the Mayor's office regarding the Vance family."
Ethan walked back to the ICU, pushing open the heavy door to Room 412.
The steady rhythm of the heart monitor filled the dimly lit room.
Clara lay motionless on the elevated hospital bed, her face bruised and heavy bandages wrapped tightly around her head and arms.
Ethan pulled a metal chair close to the bed, tenderly wrapping his broad hand around her delicate, bandaged fingers.
"I'm so sorry, sweetheart," Ethan whispered, his voice cracking as tears finally welled in his eyes. "I wasn't there to protect you."
Clara’s eyelids fluttered weakly, her chest rising in shallow, painful breaths under the thin hospital blanket.
She squeezed his hand with terrifyingly weak strength, her lips moving without making a sound.
Ethan leaned down, placing his ear inches from her mouth.
"It... wasn't... a robbery..." Clara rasped out, each breath a struggle against the pain medication.
"What was it, baby?" Ethan asked gently, brushing a stray lock of hair from her bruised forehead.
"The flash drive..." she whispered, her eyes terrified. "Inside... the baby's nursery... behind the wall clock..."
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Ethan's eyes narrowed instantly.
Before Clara could say another word, the flatline alarm on the monitor suddenly blared, sending a shrill, piercing tone through the room.
