Chapter 85 - The Traitor in the Ranks
"Get Olivia and the baby into the vault room at the back of the ward!" Ethan shouted, ripping open the tactical locker mounted behind the nurses' station and pulling out a suppressed Benelli M4 shotgun. "Now!"
Dr. Thorne and two trembling nurses sprinted into the intensive care cubicle, disconnecting Olivia’s main IV pumps and manually wheeling her heavy hospital bed toward the reinforced blast room at the end of the hall. The pediatrician grabbed the neonatal isolette, running alongside them.
Ethan racked a 12-gauge slug into the chamber, his senses sharpening into hyper-focus.
At the far end of the corridor, the heavy double doors leading to the emergency stairs were blown off their hinges with a deafening concussive blast. Smoke and pulverized drywall rolled into the hallway like a gray tidal wave.
Three men in black tactical assault gear, wearing night-vision goggles and carrying suppressed submachine guns, stepped through the smoke.
Ethan didn't wait. He stepped out from the cover of the nurses' desk and squeezed the trigger.
The Benelli roared. The high-velocity slug slammed into the center plate of the lead operator, lifting him off his feet and throwing him backward into the shattered doorframe.
Marcus stepped beside Ethan, firing with surgical precision. Two shots, two headshots. The remaining two intruders dropped like puppets with their strings cut.
"Move up!" Ethan yelled.
They advanced down the hallway, stepping over the fallen men. Ethan kicked away their weapons, his eyes scanning their gear. On the shoulder velcro of their plate carriers was a patch Ethan recognized instantly: the insignia of the Blackwood Ridge Private Tactical Command—the very PMC unit Ethan had supposedly bought out three weeks ago.
"These are my men," Ethan said, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. "This is my private security payroll!"
"Not anymore," a calm, familiar voice echoed from the shadowed stairwell.
A man stepped out into the red emergency light. He wasn't wearing body armor; he wore an immaculate charcoal tailored suit, holding a silver-plated Beretta with casual elegance.
It was Julian Vance—the family physician and trustee who had certified Charles Sterling's death six years ago.
"Julian," Ethan hissed, leveling the shotgun directly at Vance’s chest. "You faked my father's death."
"I followed your father's instructions, Ethan," Vance said smoothly, not showing the slightest fear of the shotgun aimed at his heart. "Charles understood that the Sterling fortune could never survive the federal antitrust probes and the Sovereign Council's hostile takeover if he remained in the light. He needed to die so that the empire could operate from the deep shadows."
"And Victoria?" Ethan spat. "Did he order her to torture Olivia? Did he order her to poison my pregnant wife?"
Vance smiled—a cold, aristocratic smirk that made Ethan's finger tighten on the trigger. "Victoria was a blunt instrument, poor woman. She thought she was securing an inheritance for herself. Charles merely used her insatiable greed to keep you angry, focused, and aggressive. A king cannot be forged in luxury, Ethan. You were soft. You married an elementary school teacher. You dreamed of quiet suburban philanthropy. Charles had to burn your world to ashes so that you would rise as the ruthless sovereign this family requires."
"He poisoned Olivia," Ethan said, his voice trembling with sheer, murderous rage. "He tried to kill my child."
"A calculated risk," Vance shrugged. "To force you to bring the child to him. The child’s blood contains the unique genetic sequence needed to open the Erebus Vault beneath Lake Zurich. Charles is dying of pulmonary fibrosis, Ethan. He needs the vault's assets to finalize his transfer of power. And he needs his granddaughter's bloodline registry to lock out the Council forever."
Vance slowly raised his Beretta, aiming it straight at Ethan’s forehead. "Now, stand down, boy. Or I will take the child from the incubator myself."
A deafening gunshot cracked through the corridor.
Vance’s eyes widened in sudden, absolute shock. He looked down at his chest, where a bullet hole was smoking through the silk of his charcoal tie.
Behind him, Marcus stood with his smoking sidearm, his face completely devoid of mercy.
"You talk too much, Vance," Marcus growled.
Vance collapsed onto the concrete floor, coughing up dark blood, his fingers clawing weakly at the linoleum. "You... you think you've won..." he gasped, looking up at Ethan with a dying, bloody grin. "Your father... is already inside the vault... and Victoria... just made her final deal..."
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Vance’s head lolled to the side. His eyes glazed over into death.
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