Daniel’s death sat in Matthew’s chest as unfinished business. Not grief. Resolve.
He moved to the terminal and keyed in credentials that were not his. General Barrett Haines—his friend Barry. The system accepted them instantly. It always did.
Matthew had used Haines’ identity years now—routing access requests, pulling logistics, staging digital footprints so carefully that even forensic review would need time to untangle it. And time was the one thing they wouldn’t have.
By the time they realized Haines hadn’t authorized anything, the damage would already be done. Reputations destroyed. Investigations misdirected. Careers ended.
And him? He would already be gone. Living out his final days quietly and comfortably.
He thought briefly of his wife. She was gone two years now after a massive heart attack with no warning. One moment she was standing in the kitchen; the next she was on the floor, and the house never sounded the same again. After that, his world narrowed to him and Daniel. And after Daniel, it had clarified.
Matthew opened the suitcase. The device rested inside like a tool rather than a weapon—clean, compact, modern. Not designed for apocalypse. It was a dirty bomb designed for a message.
The yield was calculated. The timing needed to be exact. The location would be unforgiving. It would detonate beneath the UN General Assembly—not to erase it, but to poison it.
Private security representatives would die first. Not in reality. Their clearances, their access models, their risk frameworks would be revoked and become the end of their story.
Governments would panic. Markets would freeze. And the conclusion would be unavoidable. Outsourced violence had failed. States would reclaim control. Contracts would burn. And men like Daniel would never be sent into proxy wars again.
One more thing remained. Matthew tapped a note into the terminal. Not operational but personal.Johnson and Olivetti would not survive this course correction. Daniel had wanted them gone. Matthew didn’t understand his son’s reasons, but he would finish what he started.
He closed the suitcase and locked it. Two weeks. He had time.
FIFTY
ICU CORRIDOR
Forty-eight hours after surgery, the hallway lights were dimmed. Machines hummed behind every door, but this stretch of corridor had fallen silent yet again—code blue alarms were reset, hands were scrubbed, and the floor around Dante’s bed was mopped.
Dr. Alistair Roe stepped out of Dante’s room and pulled his mask down under his chin. His face was pale, his beard glinting silver beneath the fluorescents.
He found Hunt Montgomery leaning against the wall across from the room, arms folded. The younger man looked up at him with that same tired question in his eyes—one they never asked aloud anymore.Is he going to make it?
Roe gave a slow shrug. Not no. Not yes. Just everything in between. “We’ve got him stabilized. Tube’s out. Vitals are holding. Oxygen’s good. But…” He paused. “Mentally? He’s somewhere between that African hole and the bed.”
Hunt blew out a breath. “I heard one of the nurses…torture. The staff is talking.”
Roe nodded once. “He had a fully lucid flashback. Ripped the tube out before Shannon could stop him. At first, he looked me in the eye like he didn’t know which country he was in. When I left the room, he was alert to place and time.”
Hunt didn’t answer right away. “His kidneys still haven’t responded.”
Roe turned toward the window in the ICU door. Dante lay in the bed, eyes closed, nasal oxygen in place. Still. But it wasn’t the stillness of rest. It was restraint.
“He’s trying, but that body’s been to hell and back. Between the blunt trauma, the burns, the shocks, the sepsis, and god knows how long without perfusion…”
“It’s a miracle he’s still breathing,” Hunt finished.
They stood in silence for a moment. Then Hunt cleared his throat. “I want to move him to Chase Med New York. If we can get him stable for transport, that’s the best chance he has. O’Reilly runs a tight ship. NY’s transplant program is elite. And Chase’s psych staff?—”
“—is the right kind,” Roe finished. “Military-versed. Real trauma experience. Not just bedside wellness pamphlets.”
Hunt nodded. “I want to place an abdominal catheter. Peritoneal dialysis.”
Roe raised a brow. “With that abdominal trauma?”
“If we’re careful with placement,” Hunt said, “and if it heals cleanly, we can give him some control back. Let him do peritoneal dialysis at the center then home. It’s less invasive. He needs a routine. Something physical to own.”
Roe was quiet. “The catheter will need ten days before it’s usable.”
