Chapter 2
It was Thursday morning, the exact time Dr. Hale was scheduled for his weekly house call to administer my eye drops. I sat behind my desk in the study, listening to the familiar, measured cadence of Hale’s footsteps approaching across the hardwood floor.
“Good morning, Grant,” Hale’s smooth, practiced voice filled the room. He carried his traditional leather medical bag, stepping up to my desk with the confident ease of a man who believed he held absolute power over his patient. “How is the post-traumatic inflammation holding up? Any unusual sensitivity to light?”
“None, Vernon,” I said quietly, remaining seated. “Pitch black. Exactly the way it’s been for five years.”
“As expected,” Hale sighed, unscrewing a small glass bottle. “Hold still. Let’s get these medicated drops into your eyes to prevent internal scarring.”
“Before you do that,” I said, lifting my hand to halt him, “I want you to answer a question.”
Hale paused, the dropper hovering in mid-air. “Of course, Grant. What is it?”
“Why did my pupils contract when a flashlight was shined into them yesterday?”
The silence that followed was absolute. The dropper slipped from Hale’s fingers, shattering against the Persian rug with a sharp, crystalline snap. The heavy, medicinal scent of the eye drops spilled into the air.
“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hale stammered, his professional composure instantly evaporating into raw, panicked terror. “Your optic nerves were severed during the Pier 17 explosion. You cannot perceive light.”
“I asked you why my pupils contracted, Vernon,” I repeated, standing up slowly from my chair. I didn't smile. I didn't yell. I simply stepped out from behind the desk, turning my sightless eyes directly toward where I heard his breathing hitch. “And don’t lie to me. My men have already downloaded your off-shore bank statements from the Cayman Islands. They show a recurring quarterly wire transfer of fifty thousand dollars deposited by an anonymous shell corporation. The exact same shell corporation that purchased the shipping rights to Pier 17 right before the explosion.”
Hale stumbled backward, his back hitting the library bookshelf as books tumbled to the floor. “Grant… you don’t understand. I was forced! They said if I didn't alter your medical files and keep you chemically blinded with specialized neurotoxin eye drops, my family would—”
“Who?” I roared, the pent-up rage of five years exploding outward as I closed the distance and grabbed Hale by the lapels of his expensive tweed jacket, hauling him off his feet. “Who gave you the order, Vernon?!”
Before Hale could choke out a name, the heavy doors of the study burst open, and Daniel Cross rushed inside, his breathing heavy, holding an encrypted tablet.
“Boss! We decrypted Hale’s communication drive!” Daniel shouted, stopping short when he saw me holding the terrified doctor off the floor. He caught his breath and delivered a blow that shook me to my core. “It wasn’t just Hale, Grant. The explosion at Pier 17 wasn't an accident. And Caroline and Emma... they didn't die in the blast.”
My hands loosened on Hale’s jacket. The world seemed to stop spinning entirely.
“What did you say?” I whispered, my voice breaking.
“They survived the initial blast, Boss,” Daniel said, his face grim and pale. “Hale helped smuggle them out of the city under alias identities on direct orders from your primary business rival, Alistair Vance. Vance wanted your empire, and he knew the only way to break you completely was to take your family... and trick you into believing you were blind and alone, so you’d never come looking for them.”
Hale whimpered, sliding down out of my loosening grip until he crumpled onto the floor at my feet. “Vance threatened to kill me if I told you the truth! He said you’d spend the rest of your life trapped in the dark!”
I looked down at the doctor who had pretended to be my friend, who had stood at my wife and daughter’s empty-casket funerals while pocketing blood money from the man who stole them away. The darkness that had imprisoned me for five years suddenly didn't feel like a physical disability anymore; it felt like a blindfold that had just been ripped off.
I couldn't see the light yet, but I could see the truth with absolute, terrifying clarity.
“Daniel,” I said, turning slowly toward my lieutenant, my voice dropping into a register of cold, absolute death.
May you like
“Boss?”
“Mobilize every man we have on the eastern seaboard,” I commanded, a dark, ruthless smile touching my lips. “Tell Alistair Vance that Grant Mercer is finally waking up. And I’m coming to collect my family.”
