Chapter 7
The heavy rubber of the riding boot peeled away, completely exposing Zoe’s small, trembling leg. Dr. Olivia let out a sharp gasp, instinctively stepping forward despite her fear, her medical training overriding her terror. Jamal clenched his fists, his jaw tightening so hard the muscles jumped beneath his warm bronze skin.
Pressed tightly between the thick lining of the boot and Zoe’s calf was a small, heavy, heavily modified GPS tracking transponder.
The device was roughly the size of a matchbox, encased in sharp, industrial-grade plastic that had been hastily jammed into the tight space of the footwear. The sharp edges of the casing had mercilessly dug into Zoe’s soft golden-brown skin every time she took a step, leaving deep, bleeding scratches up and down her leg.
It wasn't an insect. It wasn't a harmless foreign object. It was a sophisticated piece of surveillance equipment physically forced against a child's flesh.
"Oh my god," Dr. Olivia whispered in horror, quickly kneeling down beside Elijah and gently pulling the bloody transponder away from the child's leg. She immediately pressed a sterile gauze pad against the scratches, trying to soothe the weeping little girl.
Elijah remained perfectly still, kneeling on the tile. He stared at the blinking red light of the transponder resting in the doctor's gloved hand. The air in the room didn't just turn cold; it felt completely devoid of oxygen. The artistic tattoos on his hands flexed rhythmically as his fingers curled into tight fists.
Slowly, deliberately, Elijah reached out and plucked the small black device from Dr. Olivia’s hand. He stood up, towering over the room, holding the blinking tracker between his thumb and index finger.
He slowly turned his head to look back at Preston.
Preston was shivering uncontrollably against the base of the examination bench, his fair, rosy skin practically translucent with pure, unadulterated terror. He knew the absolute penalty for tracking a member of the royal bloodline. He had been caught committing treason of the highest order.
"Elijah, you have to listen to me," Preston begged frantically, his voice cracking horizontally as tears of pain and fear streamed down his face. "The Feds… they had me cornered. They threatened my family! They just wanted to know your movements! They said if I put a tracker on the kid, they would drop the RICO charges against me! I didn't want to do it!"
Elijah began to walk slowly toward him, his polished tall leather riding boots crunching over the broken pieces of the orthotic cart. He spoke slowly, with controlled, terrifying pauses between his words.
"You sold my daughter's location," Elijah stated, his voice a low, lethal hum. "To federal agents. To save yourself."
"They forced me!" Preston shrieked, trying to crawl backward, but there was nowhere to go. "They said it was the only way! They wouldn't have hurt her, Elijah, I swear! They just wanted you!"
"You jammed this..." Elijah held up the bloody tracker, his cold, intimidating eyes narrowing into slits. "...into my three-year-old child's boot. You made her bleed so you could save your pathetic, miserable life."
Preston sobbed loudly, clutching his ruined tweed jacket. "Please, Elijah! We're blood! We grew up together! Have mercy!"
Elijah stopped directly in front of the cowering man. He dropped the GPS tracker onto the floor, directly between Preston's legs, and raised his black leather boot.
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With a sickening crunch, Elijah brought his heavy heel down, completely pulverizing the sophisticated electronic device into a dozen useless pieces of plastic and wire.
"We are not blood," Elijah whispered softly, crouching down so he was eye-level with the traitor. "You are a dead man who just hasn't stopped breathing yet."
