Bramwell wiped the chocolate away and recognized his own younger face holding a newborn

The iron gates of St. Margaret’s Sanitarium hung twisted and broken from their stone pillars, crushed inward by the bumper of a black SUV.

The Maybach rolled through the wreckage, gravel crunching beneath its heavy tires as it pulled up to the front entrance of the Victorian brick facility. Emergency lights from three black tactical vehicles cast sweeping, rhythmic patterns of red and blue across the manicured lawns.

Bramwell stepped out of the vehicle, holding Dulcie wrapped securely in the cashmere blanket against his chest. The cold river wind swept down from the Hudson valley, rustling the bare oak branches above them, but the child remained warm against his coat, her eyes blinking open in confusion at the flashing lights.

"Grandpa... is this where the medicine is?" she whispered, burying her face into his shoulder.

"Daddy is here, Dulcie," Bramwell corrected gently, his voice deep and absolute. "Nobody gives medicine anymore."

Two of his operators, clad in tactical vests and holding suppressed carbines at the low ready, pushed open the heavy wooden entrance doors.

The reception lobby smelled of bleach, floor wax, and the metallic tang of fresh blood. On the linoleum floor, three private security guards sat zip-tied against the baseboards, their faces bruised and their eyes downcast. Behind the reception desk, a middle-aged man in a blood-spattered doctor’s coat was pinned to a swivel chair by Kavanagh’s forearm.

"Hollander," the doctor gasped, his eyes bulging as Bramwell walked through the threshold with the child in his arms. "I didn't know who she was! I swear to God! The orders came with full legal guardianship papers! We were told she was a violent amnesiac!"

Bramwell didn't stop. He didn't even look at the man.

"Kavanagh," Bramwell said as he strode toward the elevator bank. "Put him in the basement with the others. If he speaks again before I come down, take his teeth."

"Yes, Mr. Hollander."

The elevator doors opened with a dull chime on the third floor. The hallway was sterile, lined with white doors and industrial handrails. At the far end, outside Room 402, two of Bramwell’s men stood guard with submachine guns.

As Bramwell approached, the room’s heavy metal door was pushed open from the inside.

A female tactical medic stepped out, pulling off a pair of blue latex gloves. She looked up at Bramwell, nodding with solemn respect.

"She’s awake, Mr. Hollander. The sedatives are clearing. She’s malnourished and disoriented, but her vitals are holding. She heard your convoy arrive."

Bramwell took a single, shuddering breath—the first breath of true vulnerability he had drawn in three long years. He looked down at Dulcie. The little girl was staring at the doorway, her small hands clutching his lapel with trembling anticipation.

"Ready, sweetheart?" Bramwell murmured.