Chapter 87 - Echoes of Betrayal
The echoing crash of falling rock died away, leaving only the steady drip of condensation and the low, idling hum of the patrol boat’s diesel engines in the cavernous gloom.
I flicked on the auxiliary searchlight mounted to the bow. The beam cut through the damp fog, revealing a vast subterranean basin lined with rusted steel walkways, industrial cranes, and rows of black, pressurized shipping containers stamped with the Vance family seal.
This was not just a warehouse. It was the nerve center of the entire biogenetic black-market network.
I secured the boat to an old iron cleat, carefully lifting Noah out of the carrier. He let out a soft coo, reaching out to touch my face with cold, tiny fingers. I kissed his forehead, checking his skin. He was pale, but his breathing was clear.
"We're safe for a minute, my brave boy," I whispered, holding him tight. "Mommy is going to finish this."
I carried him up the metal staircase toward the elevated control mezzanine overlooking the flooded pen. The central terminal was powered by independent geothermal generators—the monitors were humming, casting eerie emerald light across banks of servers that stored the raw, unredacted financial and biological ledgers of Eleanor Vance's empire.
I placed Noah safely in an open, padded equipment crate lined with dry thermal suits, setting Julian’s sidearm right next to his hand.
I sat at the primary console, plugging in the master flash drive I had carried since escaping Elysium. The screen lit up with thousands of biometric data files.
And then, a name flashed on the screen that turned my blood to absolute ice.
*PROJECT CHIMERA: PRINCIPAL DONOR IDENTIFIERS.*
*DONOR ALPHA: JULIAN VANCE.*
*DONOR BETA: UNLISTED FEMALE (MATCH CODE: CLARA CALLAWAY).*
*RECIPIENT: ELEANOR VANCE (TELOMERE REGENERATION PROTOCOL).*
My breath caught in my throat. My eyes scanned the classified medical logs in horror.
Noah had never been meant to be an heir.
Eleanor wasn't fighting to make him the future head of the syndicate. She was eighty-two years old, dying of terminal multi-organ failure disguised beneath layers of cosmetic surgery and experimental therapies. Noah had been engineered, from my genetic line and Julian’s, for one monstrous purpose: a living, genetically matched organ and cellular harvest to prolong Eleanor’s life for another thirty years.
Julian hadn't just abandoned me 31 hours after childbirth for a business trip. He had delivered our child to his grandmother's harvest team to secure his inheritance.
A sickening sound broke the silence behind me—the slow, rhythmic clapping of gloved hands echoing from the catwalk above.
"You always were too curious for your own good, Clara," a smooth, venomous voice purred from the shadows.
May you like
I spun around, sidearm drawn in an instant.
Standing at the top of the metal stairs, bathed in the red glow of emergency lights, was Julian Vance.
