Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Shadows
Willa stood outside the heavy double doors of Everett’s private study on the ground floor. The house was quiet, but it was a deceptive calm. She knew guards were posted at the gates, and Crowley was likely keeping watch from his office near the kitchen.
She had to act fast. Sterling had left the estate thirty minutes ago to consult his legal team, leaving Whitfield in the upstairs guest quarters to prepare a lethal dose that could pass off as natural organ failure.
Willa slipped into the study, slipping her shoes off to make no sound on the hardwood floors.
, wall-to-wall books, and a massive mahogany desk near the bay windows overlooking the grey, churning waves of Lake Michigan.
She glided across the room, around the desk, and pulled open the top right drawer. It was filled with old stationary and brass paperweights. Feeling around the inside back wall of the drawer, her fingers found a small seam. She pressed hard.
Click.
A narrow false back popped open, revealing a heavy, military-grade satellite phone and a laminated card with a single handwritten phone number.
Her fingers flew as she dialed the eleven digits and pressed the green call button. She raised the heavy phone to her ear, listening to the static ring tones echo across high-frequency networks.
One ring. Two rings.
"Speak," a deep, heavily accented voice answered on the third ring. No greeting. No name.
"Marko?" Willa asked, her voice hushed.
Silence on the line for two agonizing seconds. "Who is this? How do you have this phone?"
"My name is Willa. I am Everett Kane's wife," she said quickly. "He told me to call you. He told me to tell you: 'The King is waking up.'"
A sharp intake of breath came over the speaker. "Where is he?"
"He's in his master bedroom at the estate," Willa said, her words rushing out. "Sterling and Dr. Whitfield have been poisoning him with heavy neurotoxins for eight months to simulate a coma. They are trying to force a transfer of his assets today. Whitfield is planning to end his life within hours. You need to help us."
"Is Everett conscious?" Marko asked, his tone shifting instantly from suspicion to cold, icy precision.
"Yes. He spoke to me twenty minutes ago. His motor functions are returning. But we are surrounded by Sterling's men."
"Listen to me carefully, Mrs. Kane," Marko said. "My name is Marko Vance. I am the head of Everett’s personal security detail. When Everett had his 'accident,' Sterling had my entire crew disarmed and driven out of the city at gunpoint. I have been waiting in the shadows for eight months for a sign that my boss was still alive."
"Can you get in here?" Willa asked, looking nervously toward the study door.
"The Kane estate is a fortress," Marko replied. "Sterling hired thirty armed mercenaries from a private security firm. A front assault will get Everett killed before we reach the second floor. We need a distraction. We need to force them to open the gates."
"How?"
"Whitfield," Marko said coldly. "He has an assistant who delivers his specific medical compounds every afternoon at four o'clock from a private pharmacy in South Chicago. We intercept that courier. We take his credentials and his vehicle. But I need you to hold out until four PM."
"I can do that," Willa said.
"One more thing, Mrs. Kane," Marko added. "Do not let Whitfield give Everett another injection. If he realizes the paralytic is wearing off, he will use a cardiac arrest agent. Protect him."
"I'll die before I let them touch him again," Willa declared fiercely.
"Good. Hold the line. The King’s loyal men are coming home."
Willa ended the call, wiped the desk surface to leave no fingerprints, and slid the satellite phone back into its hidden compartment.
She slipped quietly out of the study and headed back up the grand staircase.
As she reached the second-floor landing, she saw Dr. Whitfield coming out of his guest room. He was carrying his black leather medical bag, his expression cold and resolved.
"Mrs. Kane," Whitfield said, stopping in his tracks. "I was just coming to check on our patient."
Willa felt her blood run cold, but she forced a tight, polite smile. "Of course, Doctor. I was just fetching a fresh cup of ice water for his lips."
Whitfield stared at her, his eyes cold behind his silver-framed glasses. "You made a very foolish display downstairs today, Willa. You were always too ambitious for your own good. It ruined your career three years ago at St. Ambrose. You should have learned to keep your mouth shut."
Willa stepped in front of him, blocking the hallway leading to Everett’s room. "I took a blame three years ago because I was young and naïve, Dr. Whitfield. I didn't know that doctors like you altered electronic medical records to cover up lethal dosage errors on wealthy donors like Harold Fisk."
Whitfield’s face went dead white. His jaw tightened so hard a muscle twitched near his temple. "You have no proof of that."
"I don't need proof to make a news conference very noisy," Willa said, stepping closer, her voice low and venomous. "You stay away from my husband with those syringes. If I see you touch his IV line before four o'clock today, I will scream so loud the neighbors across the lake will hear me, and I will tear that leather bag out of your hands."
Whitfield sneered, stepping right into her space. "You think you have power here? You're a homeless girl sleeping in a dead man's house. Sterling owns the police chief, the city judges, and the security outside those gates. By nightfall, Everett will be dead of natural heart failure, and you will be in a women's correctional facility for unauthorized practice of medicine."
He shoved past her shoulder, marching toward Everett’s room.
Willa didn't hesitate. She turned and ran after him.
Whitfield pushed open the door to Everett’s room, pulling a small glass vial and a heavy syringe from his bag.
On the bed, Everett lay completely still, his eyes closed, his breathing long and shallow, playing the role of a dead man perfectly.
Whitfield snapped latex gloves onto his hands, drawing the clear, deadly liquid into the barrel of the syringe. "A sudden spike in intracranial pressure leading to cardiac arrest," Whitfield muttered to himself. "Tragic. But entirely expected."
He bent over the IV port, bringing the needle toward the rubber stopper.
"Stop!" Willa cried out, lunging forward.
She grabbed Whitfield’s wrist with both hands, pulling with all her strength.
"Get off me, you crazy bitch!" Whitfield yelled, swinging his heavy arm around. His forearm clipped Willa across the cheek, sending her crashing onto the hard hardwood floor. Her lip split against her teeth, blood pooling in her mouth.
Whitfield turned back to the IV port, his face twisted in rage. "It ends now!"
Before the needle could touch the tube, a massive, calloused hand shot out like a iron vice, grabbing Whitfield by the throat.
Whitfield let out a choked, terrified strangle.
Everett Kane was sitting upright in bed.
May you like
His grey eyes were blazing with the fury of a demon dragged out of hell. His muscles, though weakened by months of inactivity, were fueled by pure, unadulterated vengeance. His grip around Whitfield’s throat tightened like a hydraulic press.
"You... touched... my... wife," Everett growled, his voice deep, terrifying, and completely clear.
