Chapter 25 - The Race Against the Clock
Back at the estate, the morning sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, casting golden rays across the manicured lawns. But inside the master bedroom, the atmosphere was thick with mounting panic.
Mark bolted upright in bed, his chest heaving as if he had just surfaced from a deep dive. The pharmaceutical fog that Sarah’s agents had pumped into the ventilation system was beginning to wear off, leaving behind a pounding headache and an overwhelming wave of disorientation.
"Claire?" Mark called out, his voice thick with sleep and dread.
No answer.
He threw off the duvet and stood up, his legs shaking slightly before he caught his balance. He rushed into the hallway, checking Lily’s room first. The little girl was still fast asleep in her crib, clutching a small stuffed rabbit, completely oblivious to the nightmare unfolding around them.
Relief washed over him for a fraction of a second, immediately replaced by a sickening spike of terror. Claire’s side of the bed was untouched, but her slippers were gone.
Mark rushed down the stairs, his heart pounding against his ribs like a sledgehammer. He checked the kitchen, the living room, and finally flung open the door to the home office.
The room was in chaos. The desk drawers were pulled out, papers were scattered across the floor, and resting right in the middle of the mahogany blotter was an old, tarnished silver spoon with a scratch on the back.
Mark crossed the room in two strides, picking up the spoon. His eyes scanned the carved message: *“You forgot to take the silver when you ran, beggar.”*
"Damn it!" Mark roared, slamming his fist against the bookshelf, sending a row of leather-bound volumes tumbling to the floor.
He pulled his phone from his pocket, dialing Marcus’s number with shaking fingers. It rang once, twice, three times before the older lawyer answered.
"Mark? It's three in the morning. Is everything—"
"Claire is gone," Mark interrupted, his voice tight, breathless, and laced with absolute panic. "Someone broke into the house. They knocked me out with gas and took her."
On the other end of the line, Marcus went dead silent for a heartbeat. When he spoke, all the sleepiness was gone, replaced by the lethal, calculating tone of a man who had fought in the trenches of corporate warfare for forty years.
"Who?" Marcus demanded.
"I don't know yet, but I found a calling card," Mark said, his eyes locked on the silver spoon in his hand. "Evelyn's people. Or Evelyn herself."
"That's impossible," Marcus argued fiercely. "Evelyn is locked in the maximum-security federal facility upstate. Her transfer orders were ironclad."
"Check the records, Marcus!" Mark shouted, pacing the length of the study. "Check every visitor log, every medical furlough, every legal transfer in the last forty-eight hours! Somebody let her out, or she bought her way out. Find where she is, Marcus. Do it now!"
"I'm on it," Marcus said, the sound of frantic keyboard clicking already echoing through the phone line. "Listen to me, Mark. Don't go looking for her alone. If Evelyn is out, this isn't a kidnapping—it's a trap. She wants you to come running so she can finish what she started two years ago."
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"I don't care about her trap," Mark snarled, his eyes blazing with protective fury. "If she lays a single finger on Claire, I will burn her entire legacy to ash. Track that phone, Marcus. Track it right now."
***
