Chapter 8 - The Ghost of St. Mercy
The rooftop air was freezing, the Denver skyline glowing in the distance through a thick sheet of swirling winter rain.
A sleek black AgustaWestland helicopter sat on the wet helipad, its rotors spinning at full speed, whipping rain into a blinding spray across the concrete roof.
Standing near the open side door of the aircraft was a tall man in a dark tailored overcoat, flanked by two armed security guards in unmarked tactical gear.
He turned as the heavy roof door slammed shut behind me.
Even through the rain and the dim red safety lights of the helipad, I recognized him instantly.
Arthur Walker.
His hair was silver now, his face slightly lined, but his posture was as rigid, cold, and commanding as the day he sat at our dinner table and told me I didn't have the stomach to be a surgeon.
"Ethan," my father spoke, his voice carried clearly over the roar of the rotors through a Bluetooth headset. "You shouldn't have come up here."
"You're alive," I said, walking toward him across the wet concrete, stopping ten feet away. "You faked your death. You let Mason and me mourn you for four years."
"I built an enterprise, Ethan," Arthur said calmly, his expression devoid of any warmth or remorse. "A medical holding group worth billions. Do you have any idea what it takes to fund advanced neural research? Public grants take decades. Regulatory boards are run by bureaucrats. I cut the red tape."
"You killed people, Dad!" I screamed over the roar of the helicopter. "You used my name! You put fentanyl in my son's milk!"
Arthur’s eyes narrowed slightly—the only sign of emotion he showed.
"The boy was a mistake," Arthur said quietly. "Pierce panicked when your wife started asking questions. I ordered Pierce to handle Laura smoothly. He exceeded his authority by involving the child."
"He was following your protocol!" I shouted, holding up the silver laptop. "I have the trial ledgers, Dad. I have the board signatures. I have the offshore transaction codes. It's all right here."
Arthur looked at the laptop in my hand. Then he let out a long, slow sigh.
"You always were too sentimental, Ethan," Arthur whispered. "Just like your mother. You look at human life as individual fragile little threads. I look at it as a loom. A few broken threads are necessary to weave something greater."
He raised his right hand slightly.
Behind him, the two tactical guards stepped forward, raising their silenced submachine guns toward my chest.
"Give me the laptop, Ethan," Arthur said, his voice flat as steel. "And I'll make sure Laura and Noah are taken care of in a private facility in Switzerland. You have my word as your father."
"Your word," I laughed—a dark, bitter sound. "Your word is worth less than the dust on this roof."
I took three steps backward toward the edge of the roof ledge.
Below us, fifty feet down, sat the open concrete fire pit of the hospital's lower incinerator plaza.
"If you shoot me," I said, holding the laptop out over the black abyss, "this computer goes over the edge. It smashes onto the concrete below. And Detective Vance already has the decryption keys emailed to his federal server."
Arthur’s face finally cracked. His jaw tightened, his eyes darkening with genuine rage.
May you like
"You wouldn't," Arthur hissed.
"Try me," I said.
