The drive to the hospital felt like an exercise in restraint. Every time a siren wailed in a parallel street, my hands tightened on the steering wheel until the leather groaned. I was a man of action, a man of movement. Sitting still while a federal agent circled my family felt like being buried alive.
I pulled into the Aegis Medical Wing's VIP parking. I didn't go in through the back. I walked through the front doors, the CEO of Aegis Global, dressed in a three-thousand-dollar suit that felt like a shroud.
The lobby was bustling, but I felt the shift in atmosphere immediately. Near the elevators, two men stood with the unmistakable posture of federal agents—backs straight, earpieces visible, eyes scanning the room with cold, bureaucratic indifference.
And then I saw him.
Agent Marcus Thorne was sitting in the waiting area outside Emily's office. He didn't look like a fed. He looked like a university professor—round glasses, a tweed jacket, and a calm, scholarly expression. But his eyes were like flint. He was reading a medical journal, looking completely at home.
I walked straight toward him.
"Agent Thorne, I assume," I said, my voice echoing in the hallway.
Thorne looked up, slowly closing the journal. He stood up, and I realized he was taller than he looked sitting down. He didn't offer a hand. He just smiled—a thin, paper-cut of a smile.
"Mr. Thompson. I was wondering when the king would come down from his mountain," Thorne said. His voice was smooth, cultured, and terrifyingly steady. "I'm just finishing a very enlightening conversation with your cousin."
My jaw tightened. "My cousin is a busy surgeon, Agent. If you have questions for the Thompson family, my legal team is a phone call away. You're disrupting a hospital."
"On the contrary, Mr. Thompson. I'm protecting it," Thorne replied. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "I've spent fifteen years hunting men who think they are above the law. Men who wear masks because they're afraid of the light. Usually, they're motivated by money or religion. But you? You're motivated by grief. And grief is a very messy trail to follow."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, my voice a low, dangerous rumble.
"I think you do. I think you know exactly what happened in Brooklyn five years ago. I think you know why a certain 'Andrew Parker' disappeared and why 'Oliver Thompson' suddenly appeared with the exact same blood type and a very similar skeletal structure."
He tapped his temple. "Detective Vance is a bloodhound. She follows the scent. But I? I'm an architect. I look at the blueprint. And your blueprint has a massive hole in it, Oliver."
Before I could respond, the office door opened. Emily stepped out. She looked pale, her eyes wide as she saw me standing there with Thorne. She looked like she had been through a mental war.
"Oliver?" she whispered.
I moved to her side instantly, putting an arm around her. She was trembling. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," she said, but her voice betrayed her. She looked at Thorne with a mixture of fear and loathing. "He was just asking about... the archives. About the fire."
"Agent Thorne was just leaving," I said, staring at the man.
"Actually, I was," Thorne said, picking up his briefcase. "But before I go, Mr. Thompson... you should know. We found him."
I felt a cold chill wash over me. "Found who?"
"A man named Silas," Thorne said, the name hanging in the air like a threat. "He used to manage a boxing gym in Brooklyn. He remembers a kid named Andrew Parker quite well. In fact, he kept a pair of old hand wraps Andrew left behind. Sweaty, blood-stained hand wraps. Perfect for a DNA match."
The world seemed to tilt. My DNA. From the days before the cleanup. If they matched that DNA to the Thompson bloodline, the mask wouldn't just be off—it would be incinerated.
"Silas is a talkative man," Thorne continued, walking toward the elevator. "We're bringing him in for a formal statement tonight. I imagine by tomorrow morning, the 'ghost' will have a name, a face, and a prison cell."
He stepped into the elevator and turned around, the doors slowly closing on his calm, smiling face.
The moment he was gone, Emily turned to me, her eyes filling with tears. "Andrew, what did he mean? DNA? Who is Silas?"
"A ghost from my past," I whispered, my mind racing at a thousand miles an hour.
I looked at the clock. It was Day 5. I had promised Emily a week of silence. I had promised her no missions, no masks. But if Silas talked, if that DNA was processed, there would be no Oliver Thompson left to protect her.
"Oliver, look at me," Emily said, grabbing my lapels. "You're thinking about it. You're thinking about going back out there."
"I have to, Emily. If they get that DNA—"
"No!" she shouted, ignoring the stares of the nurses. "If you go tonight, you're doing exactly what Thorne wants! He's baiting you! He wants 'Hotdog' to show up at that gym or the federal building. It's a trap!"
"I can't just sit here and let him destroy us!"
"Then find another way!" she sobbed, leaning her head against my chest. "Please. For one more day. Just give me one more day of the man, not the monster."
I held her, my heart breaking. I could feel the hunter's noose tightening around our necks. Ethan was out there, William was watching the feeds, and Thorne was holding the killing blow.
I looked over Emily's shoulder at my reflection in the glass door. I looked like a CEO. I looked like a Thompson. But inside, the ghost was screaming to be let out.
I had forty-eight hours left of my promise.
And Marcus Thorne had just started the countdown to our execution.