Chapter 7
The Maybach tore through the empty parkways heading north, its twin-turbo V12 engine whistling softly beneath the armored chassis.
Inside the cabin, the city lights flickered past the tinted glass like pale golden streaks. Dulcie had fallen asleep within ten minutes, her little golden head resting against Bramwell’s thigh, her small chest rising and falling in deep, exhausted rhythms. Her tiny hand remained curled into the wool of his trousers, as if afraid that letting go would send her back to the dark room with the chocolate fountain.
Bramwell’s satellite phone buzzed once on the leather armrest.
He picked it up, pressing the receiver to his ear without waking the child.
"Talk to me, Kavanagh."
"We’ve breached the perimeter at Cold Spring, Mr. Hollander," Kavanagh’s voice came through the encrypted channel, crisp, flat, and accompanied by the distant sound of shattering safety glass and shouting men. "The private security company on site tried to lock the front gates. We drove the Suburban through the gatehouse. The administration staff is secured in the lobby."
"Have you found the room?" Bramwell asked, his eyes never leaving the little girl’s face.
"Third floor, east corridor. Room 402, just like the brother said," Kavanagh replied, his breathing tight from climbing stairs. "The door has an electronic magnetic lock and a secondary deadbolt from the outside. Sir... there’s a medical transport team here."
Bramwell’s knuckles tightened around the phone until the aluminum frame creaked. "What kind of transport team?"
"Private ambulance from an offshore contractor," Kavanagh said, the background noise swelling with the sound of a man screaming in pain followed by a heavy metallic thud. "They were prepping a gurney. They had sedation orders signed fifteen minutes ago. Saskia called them from the gallery before you took her phone."
A feral, ancient darkness flashed behind Bramwell’s eyes.
"Is Clara breathing?" Bramwell demanded, his voice dropping into a razor-thin whisper.
"She’s alive, sir. Heavily sedated, but stable. Our tactical medic is with her right now, reversing the neuroleptic drip they had running." Kavanagh paused, the tension vibrating through the digital signal. "Mr. Hollander... there’s something else."
"Speak."
"The director of the facility... we found him in the administrative office trying to burn the hard drives in a chemical sink. We pulled him out before he could finish. He’s talking."
"What is he saying, Kavanagh?"
"He said Saskia wasn't the one paying the primary bills," Kavanagh said, his voice dropping in disbelief. "The trust funding this room wasn't the Vance family trust. The monthly wire transfers were coming from inside our own holding company. From the maritime division."
Bramwell’s jaw set into stone.
The maritime division was run by only one man—Lucian Graves, Bramwell’s second-in-command and the man who had stood as his best man at his first wedding twelve years ago.
"Hold the facility," Bramwell ordered, his voice chillingly devoid of emotion. "Keep the doctor breathing. Do not move Clara until my car crosses the gate. I am eight minutes out."
He hung up the phone.
Beside him, Dulcie stirred, letting out a soft sigh in her sleep, her brow furrowing as she shifted against his leg. Bramwell reached down and smoothed the curls away from her forehead, his heavy signet ring gleaming in the dashboard light.
May you like
The betrayal was not a petty scheme by an ambitious socialite.
It was a coup.
