MILLIONAIRE SURGEON SEES A BEGGAR MAKE HIS WHEELCHAIR-BOUND DAUGHTER LAUGH

The rain beat relentlessly against the windshield of the Mercedes as Will drove like a man possessed, his phone connected to Marcus via the hands-free speaker.

"Marcus! They took him! Vance and another man—they shoved him into a black van, license plate ending in 4-8-9!" Will shouted over the roar of the engine.

"I’m on it, Dr. Anderson!" Marcus’s voice crackled through the speaker. "I'm tapping into the city traffic camera feed right now. Where are you?"

"I’m heading south toward the industrial district! That’s the direction they took off the highway!"

Inside the back of the speeding van, Noah lay bound at the wrists, his face bruised from the struggle. The air smelled of gasoline, damp rust, and stale tobacco.

Vance sat on a wooden crate opposite him, nursing his swollen jaw where Will had struck him. He spat a mouthful of blood onto the floorboards.

"Your fancy doctor friend hits hard," Vance sneered, leaning forward so his ugly, terrifying face was inches from Noah’s. "But it doesn't matter now. You’re my ticket out of this country, kid. One million dollars. That’s what he’s gonna pay us to get you back."

Noah pulled his chin up, staring at Vance through his bruised eyes with unwavering defiance. "He won't give you a dime. He’s gonna hunt you down and destroy you."

Vance laughed—a dry, terrifying sound. "He's a surgeon, kid! A rich man in a silk tie! He operates on brains; he doesn't fight in the mud! He’s soft!"

"He isn't soft," Noah spat out, his voice sharp with absolute faith. "He’s my father."

Vance’s laughter died instantly. A dark, psychotic rage flashed across his face. He reached out, grabbing Noah by the front of his shirt and pulling him up until their noses were almost touching.

"He ain't your father!" Vance snarled. "I'm your family! Me! And you're gonna learn your place all over again!"

The van screeched to a halt, throwing both of them against the wall. They had arrived at an abandoned shipyard warehouse along the foggy shores of the Boston Harbor.

Tommy opened the back doors, grabbing Noah by the collar and dragging him out into the freezing rain. "Get him inside. I’m calling the doctor now to make the demand."

Inside the cavernous, rotting warehouse, rusty machinery hung from rusted iron girders like dead leviathans. Water dripped from holes in the high corrugated roof, creating eerie, echoing splashes on the flooded concrete floor.

Tommy threw Noah into a metal chair near the center of the room, quickly tying his ankles to the legs with heavy rope.

Tommy pulled out a burner phone and dialed Will’s direct line.

In the Mercedes, Will’s phone chimed. He instantly pressed the answer button.

"Will Anderson," he answered, his voice icy, dangerous.

"Dr. Anderson," Tommy’s gravelly voice came through the speaker. "We have the boy."

"If you hurt him," Will said, every word measured and lethal, "there is no place on this earth where you can hide from me."

Tommy chuckled dryly over the line. "Save the speech, doc. We want one million dollars in unmarked cash. You have one hour to drop it at the south pier of the old Atlantic Shipyard. Come alone, no police, or the kid goes into the harbor with five hundred pounds of scrap metal tied to his feet."

"Let me speak to Noah," Will demanded. "I need to know he’s alive."

There was a pause, followed by the sound of the phone being held up to Noah’s face.

"Doc!" Noah’s hoarse voice cut through the static. "Don't come! It’s a trap! They ain't gonna let—"

The call was abruptly cut off by the heavy thud of Vance kicking the chair.

Will slammed his hand against the steering wheel. He checked his dashboard GPS. The Atlantic Shipyard was less than three miles away.

He pulled over to the side of the road, picking up his personal phone to call Marcus.

"Marcus. I have the location. Atlantic Shipyard, south pier. Call the SWAT team, but tell them to hold their perimeter until I am inside. If they see blue lights, they’ll kill him."