Part 21
The Maybach smashed through the wrought-iron gates of the Sterling estate, sending metal shards flying across the lawn.
The driver brought the heavy vehicle to a halt right in front of the main entrance.
Before the car had even fully stopped, I was out the door, running up the stone steps.
Two of Sterling's private security guards tried to block the entrance, but Marcus was right behind me.
With a fluid, brutal efficiency, Marcus drew his weapon and fired two non-lethal electronic darts, dropping them instantly.
I kicked open the heavy oak doors, the grand foyer echoing with the sound of my heels.
"Alistair!" I roared, my voice echoing up the massive winding staircase. "Bring them out!"
The house was dead silent, save for the ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner.
I marched back into the conservatory, my chest heaving, expecting to find the old man waiting with a smug smile.
Instead, the room was empty.
The wheelchair was vacant, its oxygen tank hiss-hissing softly in the quiet air.
On the marble table, right next to the silver rattle, sat a burner phone.
The moment I approached it, the phone began to vibrate, its harsh ringtone cutting through the silence like a knife.
I snatched it up, pressing it to my ear.
"Where are they?" I hissed, every muscle in my body coiled like a spring.
"Calm yourself, Victoria," a voice said—but it wasn't Alistair’s raspy cough.
It was a voice I recognized instantly, a voice that had whispered lies into my ear for five years.
Thomas.
"You thought I was locked away in a federal cell," Thomas laughed, his voice dripping with sadistic pleasure.
"You forgot that Alistair owns the judges, the marshals, and the transport vans."
May you like
"I'm out, Victoria. And I have our children."
"If you ever want to see them breathe again, you're going to give me back my life."
