Chapter 8 - The Empty Wing
The silence that followed Luca's words was absolute. The low hum of the vault's ventilation system suddenly sounded deafening.
"Gone?" I repeated, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. "Where?"
"The back exit leading to the old greenhouse," Luca said, his professional composure cracking at the edges. "I checked the security monitor for the north corridor. Sterling didn't take her by force. She was walking beside him, holding his hand, carrying that stuffed rabbit like nothing was wrong."
I didn't wait for another word. I holstered my weapon, turned on my heel, and bolted out of the vault, my boots slamming against the stone corridor floors. Mateo and Luca were right behind me, their footsteps echoing through the cavernous hallways of the manor.
We cut through the banquet hall and out into the cooling evening air of the inner courtyard. The sun had dipped below the tree line, casting long, bruised shadows across the manicured lawns. The old greenhouse—a sprawling Victorian structure of rusted iron and cracked glass that my father had built in the seventies—sat at the far end of the rose gardens, dark and abandoned.
At least, it was supposed to be abandoned.
A single strip of yellow light cut from beneath the rotting wooden doors of the greenhouse, spilling out onto the overgrown gravel path.
"Spread out," I whispered, drawing my Beretta once more and keeping low against the stone wall of the terrace. "If Sterling has a weapon, don't hesitate."
We moved toward the structure in absolute silence. As we reached the glass walls, the sound of a low, muffled voice drifted through a broken pane near the roof.
"...almost time to go, little one," a man's voice murmured. It was Sterling. There was no trace of the trembling, frail elderly physician in his tone; it was crisp, steady, and cold. "Your uncle Thomas is waiting at the ridge road. He has the car running."
I crept around to the main double doors, signaling Luca to take the side entrance. With a sharp shove of my shoulder, I threw the rotting wooden doors inward, the wood splintering against the stone floor.
"End of the line, Sterling," I said, stepping into the damp, fern-choked interior with my weapon raised.
The doctor stood near the center of the greenhouse, illuminated by a single portable work light plugged into an extension cord. Mia was sitting calmly on an old wooden potting bench, swinging her legs back and forth.
Sterling didn't pull a gun. He didn't run. He simply turned around, adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, and looked at me with a sad, weary smile.
"You always were too impatient, Damian," Sterling said softly. "Just like your father. You want to pull the trigger before you even understand what the target is."
Before I could order him to put his hands where I could see them, Mia slid off the bench, walked over to Sterling, and wrapped her small arms around his leg.
May you like
"Grandpa," she whispered.
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