Chapter 2 - Shadows of the Past
"Arthur Corbett," I said, my voice barely a whisper, yet carrying a weight that felt heavy enough to crack the hospital's concrete floor. "And his sons, Brian and Scott."
On the other end of the line, Marcus let out a slow, measured breath. For a decade, Marcus had been my handler, the logistical brain behind a Tier-1 black-ops unit that officially didn't exist. When I chose to walk away to marry Christine and raise Jake, Marcus was the one who scrubbed my records, fabricated my corporate resume, and helped me bury Ethan Vance—the lethal operative—so that Ethan Vance, the suburban father, could live.
"Corbett," Marcus muttered. "The local dynasty. Real estate, shipping, and half the local police force in their pocket. That’s why you aren't calling the local precinct, isn’t it?"
"They held my boy down, Marcus," I said, my hand tightening on the plastic railing of the hospital corridor until my knuckles turned white. "He has a concussion. He’s eight."
A silence stretched over the encrypted line, cold and absolute. In our line of work, we had seen the worst of humanity, but we had always drawn a line at children.
"Where is the boy now?" Marcus asked.
"St. Jude’s Pediatric, Room 314. I need security. Real security. Not hospital guards who can be bought off by a Corbett donation."
"Consider it done," Marcus replied instantly. "I have two assets in the tri-state area. They’ll be on-site in forty minutes. They’ll look like plainclothes hospital staff, but they’ll be carrying enough hardware to stop a small militia. What are you going to do?"
"I’m going to get Jake’s things from the Corbett estate," I said. "And I’m going to see my wife."
"Ethan," Marcus warned, using the name I hadn't heard in eight years. "If you cross that threshold as the man you used to be, there’s no coming back. The quiet life you built is over."
"My quiet life ended the moment they laid a hand on my son," I said, and disconnected the call.
I walked back into Jake’s room. His eyes were closed now, his breathing shallow but stable. I leaned down and whispered into his ear. "I have to go run an errand, buddy. But there are some friends of mine coming to watch over you. You're safe. I promise."
I left the hospital, the cold night air hitting my face like a splash of ice water. As I climbed into my modest SUV, my phone buzzed again. Christine.
I answered it this time.
"Ethan! Where are you?" Her voice was frantic, but underneath the panic, I could hear the practiced defensiveness of someone who had spent her entire life under her father's thumb. "Dad said it was an accident. Jake slipped on the driveway. We’ve been trying to find him, but the neighbor—"
"He didn't slip, Christine," I said, my voice eerily calm. "And you know it."
"You don't understand how my family is, Ethan! My dad was just trying to teach him a lesson about respect. You’ve been keeping him away from us, and—"
"I’m on my way," I said, cutting her off.
"To the hospital?"
May you like
"To your father's house."
Before she could reply, I ended the call and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. The suburban dad was gone. The man who had survived interrogations in dry safehouses and conducted high-value target extractions in the dead of night was taking the wheel.
