Chapter 7 - The Voice on the Other End
Outside on the gravel driveway,
my father picked up the encrypted tactical radio he had confiscated from the downed mercenary leader.
The green indicator light on top of the radio blinked steadily,
signaling an open,
private transmission channel.
Dad walked back toward the glass doors of the medical wing,
holding the device out toward me with an unreadable expression on his weathered face.
"It's an open direct frequency,"
Dad said,
handing the heavy radio to my trembling hand,
"they have an active repeater stationed somewhere near the hotel.
Ryan is listening on the other end right now,
waiting to hear that Leo is back in their custody."
I looked down at the matte-black plastic,
feeling the cold weight of the machine in my palm.
For four years,
I had listened to Ryan’s smooth,
reassuring promises.
I had believed him when he said he loved me,
when he promised to build an empire for our family,
and when he held Leo in the delivery room with tears shining in his eyes.
Every single memory was a lie,
a carefully calculated performance designed to keep me docile while he plotted the harvest of our child’s marrow.
I pressed the heavy rubber transmission button on the side of the unit.
The static hissed for a split second,
clearing into absolute,
taut silence.
"Alpha Team,
report,"
Ryan’s voice suddenly crackled through the small speaker,
breathless,
frantic,
and edged with hysterical desperation.
"Did you breach the clinic?
Do you have the boy?
Talk to me!
Victor’s jet is taxiing toward the runway at LAX,
and he is threatening to pull all our offshore accounts if the child isn't on that plane!"
I took a slow,
deliberate breath,
letting the freezing canyon air fill my lungs,
letting every ounce of grief transform into pure,
unadulterated venom.
"The boy isn't going to LAX,
Ryan,"
I said,
my voice ringing out clear,
low,
and lethal through the frequency.
The radio went dead silent on the other end.
For five agonizing seconds,
the only sound from the speaker was the ragged,
uneven breathing of the man who had shared my bed for half a decade.
"Mariana?"
he finally whispered,
his voice cracking,
his arrogant demeanor instantly fracturing into sheer panic.
"Where is my team?
What did your father do to them?"
"Your team is lying face down in the mud,"
I replied coldly,
stepping closer to the ICU window where Leo slept under warm blankets,
"in zip-ties,
under armed guard,
waiting for the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department and the FBI to collect them."
"Listen to me,
Mariana!"
Ryan shouted,
his voice rising in pitch until it was nearly a shriek.
"You don't understand the scope of what is happening!
You don't understand what Victor Sterling is capable of!
This isn't about hurting Leo!
It was never about hurting him!
A simple bone marrow aspiration doesn't kill a child!
His cells regenerate within weeks!
He wouldn't have remembered a thing,
Mariana!
Not a single thing!"
Hearing him speak about our son as if he were an organ donor for a corporate deal made my stomach churn with violent disgust.
"You injected him with a paralytic,
Ryan,"
I hissed into the microphone,
my words cutting like razor wire.
"You let a back-alley physician put a high-gauge needle into his neck while he was resting in his crib on his first birthday.
His heart rate dropped to sixty-two beats per minute in the back of my father's truck.
If we had left him in that room for fifteen more minutes,
his lungs would have stopped moving entirely."
"That was Dr.
Cross’s mistake,
not mine!"
he yelled defensively,
already trying to shift the blame to someone else.
"She miscalculated the pediatric dosage!
I swear to you,
Mariana,
I never wanted him to stop breathing!
Please,
bring him back to the hotel!
Victor has offered us eight million dollars in untraceable bonds!
Think about what that means for our future!
We could leave the country,
buy an estate in New Zealand,
and start completely over!"
Before I could answer,
the sound of a scuffle erupted on the other end of the line,
followed by the sharp rustle of the radio changing hands.
"Give me that,
you coward!"
Beatrice's shrill,
venomous voice suddenly filled the speaker,
dripping with pure,
unmitigated malice.
"Listen to me,
you little gutter rat,"
Beatrice snarled,
abandoning every trace of her high-society elegance.
"You were a nobody when my son married you.
You were a pathetic auditor with an old cop for a father,
and we elevated you into a life you could never have earned on your own.
That baby carries Vance blood,
Vance genetics,
and Vance property rights!
You think you can ruin this family with a few cell phone videos and some police reports?
Victor Sterling owns judges in three different federal districts!
By sunrise tomorrow,
I will have emergency custody orders signed by a superior court magistrate declaring you mentally unfit,
suicidal,
and dangerous to your child!
You will spend the next ten years in a state psychiatric ward,
and Leo will still fulfill his contractual obligations to this family!"
I stared at the radio,
a cold smile slowly spreading across my lips.
"Thank you,
Beatrice,"
I said softly.
"Thank you for what,
you miserable fool?"
she snapped back.
"Thank you for saying every single word on an unencrypted tactical frequency,"
I answered,
glancing toward Frank,
who gave me a thumbs-up from his recording terminal inside the clinic lobby.
"We’ve recorded the entire conversation,
Beatrice.
Every confession,
every threat,
and every detail about the eight million dollar payout.
The federal prosecutors are listening to the feed right now.
Pack your bags,
Beatrice.
Because the only suite you’re sleeping in tomorrow night has steel bars on the windows."
May you like
I released the transmission key and dropped the radio onto the concrete floor,
crushing the plastic antenna under the heavy heel of my boot.
