Chapter 5 - THE MAN IN THE SHADOWS
The mercenary’s eyes went wide. He stumbled forward, dropping his weapon, and collapsed onto the cheap linoleum floor with a heavy thud.
I grabbed Noah, shielding him with my body, while Sarah instinctively backed away, clutching the ledger and the burning lighter.
The smoke from the gunshot drifted slowly through the apartment doorway.
Stepping over the mercenary's body was a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a heavy black overcoat. He lowered a smoking revolver, his face hidden in the shadows of the dim hallway.
For a terrifying second, I thought Edward had sent another hitman.
But then the man stepped into the light of the apartment.
He was in his late forties. His face was weathered, lined with exhaustion and years of hard living. His dark hair was threaded with gray, and a thick beard covered his jaw.
But I knew those eyes. I knew the slight tilt of his shoulders. I knew the way he stood.
My breath caught in my throat, choking off the air to my lungs.
"James?" I whispered, my voice breaking completely.
The man lowered the revolver entirely. He looked at me, and twenty-two years of grief, anger, and profound sadness washed over his face in a single instant.
"Dad," James said, his voice deep and raspy.
I didn't think. I didn't hesitate. I crossed the ruined apartment in three strides and threw my arms around my son.
He felt solid. Real. He smelled like cold rain and stale cigarette smoke, but he was alive. I buried my face in his heavy coat and sobbed like a child, my sixty-eight-year-old body shaking uncontrollably.
"I thought you were dead," I wept, gripping him as if he would vanish into smoke if I let go. "I thought you left us."
James wrapped his arms around me, burying his face in my shoulder. I felt his tears soak through my tuxedo jacket. "I'm sorry, Dad. I'm so sorry. I couldn't come home. Edward told me if I ever contacted you, he would kill you too."
"Daddy!"
Noah broke away from Sarah and sprinted across the room, throwing his small arms around James's legs.
James dropped to his knees, dropping the revolver, and crushed his son and wife into a desperate embrace. They clung to each other on the floor of the ruined apartment, a family reunited in the middle of a nightmare.
I stood back, wiping my eyes, my mind reeling.
"Vance lied," I realized aloud. "David Vance told me Edward was keeping you in a psychiatric facility upstate."
James looked up from his wife's shoulder, his eyes hardening with a sudden, terrifying clarity.
"Vance didn't lie, Dad," James said grimly. "Edward did put me in St. Jude’s. For nine months, they kept me heavily drugged in a locked room. I didn't even know my own name half the time."
"Then how did you get out?" I asked.
James stood up, picking up the revolver and tucking it into his waistband. "Somebody slipped a key card under my door three days ago. And a burner phone with a text message that said, 'Edward knows about your son. Run.' I've been walking for three days to get back here."
My blood ran cold. "Who sent the message?"
"I don't know," James admitted. "But whoever it was, they wanted me out."
"It doesn't matter," Sarah interrupted, urgently stuffing the ledger into her coat pocket. "We have to leave. The gunshot is going to attract the police, or worse, the rest of Edward’s men."
"She's right," I said, grabbing Noah's hand again. "My driver is downstairs in a taxi. We need to get out of the city."
We hurried out of the apartment, carefully stepping over the unconscious mercenary in the doorway. We didn't take the stairs; James led us down the rusted fire escape on the back of the building, dropping into a trash-filled alleyway.
We sprinted around the block, bursting onto the main avenue where the yellow taxi was still idling.
Marcus jumped out, his hand on his weapon, ready for a fight. But when he saw James, his massive shoulders slumped in sheer disbelief.
"Mr. James?" Marcus gasped.
"Good to see you, Marcus," James nodded, clapping the big man on the shoulder. "Get us out of here."
We piled into the cab. Marcus slammed on the gas, tearing away from the curb just as two black SUVs turned onto the street behind us, their headlights sweeping across the tenement building.
"Where to, sir?" Marcus asked, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror.
"Not my penthouse," I said quickly. "Edward has eyes everywhere in Manhattan. We need somewhere safe. Somewhere off the grid."
"I know a place," Sarah said from the backseat, holding Noah tightly against her. "My sister has an empty cabin in the Catskills. It’s isolated. No cell service. Edward doesn't know she exists."
"The Catskills it is," I ordered.
The drive took three hours. The silence in the cab was thick with unspoken questions. James sat in the front passenger seat, staring out the window at the dark highway, his hand resting near the revolver in his coat.
I sat in the back with Sarah and Noah. The little boy had fallen asleep, his head resting on my lap, clutching the chef's coat I had given him at the hotel.
When we finally arrived at the cabin, it was nearly 3:00 AM. The place was small, dusty, and freezing cold, but it was safe. Marcus built a fire in the old stone hearth, and Sarah immediately put Noah to sleep on a worn sofa, covering him with heavy quilts.
I sat at the wooden kitchen table, exhausted to my bones. James sat across from me. He looked so much older than the eighteen-year-old boy I remembered. The lines on his face told a story of a life lived in constant fear.
"Why didn't you tell me, James?" I asked softly. "Twenty-two years ago, before you disappeared. If you knew Edward was embezzling, why didn't you come to me?"
James stared into the fire. "Because I thought you were in on it, Dad."
I froze. "What?"
James pulled a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket and slid it across the table. It was an old bank transfer receipt, dated twenty-two years ago.
"I found this in Edward's office the day before I disappeared," James explained quietly. "It’s a wire transfer for two million dollars to a cartel front company in Miami. And right there on the bottom line, authorizing the transfer..."
I looked at the receipt.
My signature was forged perfectly on the bottom line.
"Edward made it look like you were the mastermind," James said, his voice thick with regret. "He told me if I went to the police, you would go to prison for the rest of your life. He told me the only way to protect you was to run."
I closed my eyes, a tear escaping down my cheek. My brother had manipulated my son's love for me to force him into exile.
Suddenly, a loud, heavy knock pounded on the cabin door.
Everyone froze. Marcus drew his weapon. James grabbed his revolver.
"Did anyone follow us?" I whispered frantically.
"No," Marcus said firmly. "I watched the mirrors the whole way."
May you like
The knock came again. Slower this time. More deliberate.
"Charles," a voice called from outside. It was a familiar, aristocratic drawl that made my blood run entirely cold. "Open the door. It's freezing out here, and I'd like to see my nephew."
