“Sir, I found your son beside the dumpster outside your mansion,” a soaking wet little girl said as she held a baby wrapped inside a black trash bag. The billionaire, who had been declared sterile twelve years earlier, didn't panic. He opened the letter taped to the baby's blanket and called his attorney, never realizing the traitor was already inside his own home.

“Don't take another step, Spencer!” Pamela screamed, her voice shrill and hysterical above the blaring red security sirens.

She backed toward the open balcony doors, where the freezing rain whipped into the bedroom, soaking the curtains and carpet. Outside on the upper terrace, the heavy, rhythmic thumping of helicopter blades chopped through the night air. A unmarked black helicopter hovered low over the lawn, its searchlight blindingly bright as it cut through the darkness.

Spencer stopped dead in his tracks, raising his hands slowly. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped animal, but his face remained a cold, unreadable stone mask.

“Pamela,” Spencer said, his voice terrifyingly calm as he measured the distance between them. “Put the gun down. You’re holding a week-old infant in a freezing storm.”

“He was never supposed to exist, Spencer!” Pamela shrieked, tears mixing with the rain on her face. “You don't understand! I didn't just harvest your vial for money! I was working for a syndicate that buys high-value genetic lineages! A child born from the Warren fortune, with full legal rights to your family’s vast technology patents—he’s worth fifty million dollars on the private market!”

“Jocelyn Cooper,” Spencer said softly, taking a fraction of a inch step forward. “You killed her, didn't you?”

“She found out!” Pamela cried out, her eyes wildly darting toward the helicopter ladder dropping onto the terrace railing. “She discovered that the baby was registered under your name in the medical vault! She was going to bring him to you! I couldn't let her blow the entire operation open! My operative was supposed to dispose of the baby quietly... but that stupid little girl found him in the trash!”

Behind Spencer, a small gasp sounded from the doorway.

Charlee stood there, holding her blue teddy bear, her eyes wide with terror as she looked at Pamela holding Dexter.

“Charlee,” Spencer commanded softly without turning his head. “Go back to your room. Now.”

“No!” Charlee yelled, her small voice cutting through the noise of the helicopter. “Give him back! He’s my brother!”

Pamela’s attention flickered toward Charlee for a fraction of a second, her gun tilting slightly away from Spencer.

It was the only opening Spencer needed.

In a single, explosive movement, Spencer launched himself across the room. He slammed his left hand into Pamela’s wrist, forcing the tranquilizer gun upward as a dart buried itself into the ceiling plaster. With his right arm, he scooped baby Dexter safely against his chest, twisting his body to shield the child from impact as they crashed onto the wet stone tiles of the balcony.

Pamela screamed, stumbling backward onto the slick terrace.

“Get the baby!” she screamed into her headset toward the helicopter pilot.

A masked operative dressed in black tactical gear swung down from the helicopter ladder, boots landing hard on the stone railing, a stun baton crackling with blue electricity in his hand.

Spencer scrambled backward on his knees, keeping Dexter tucked firmly beneath his suit jacket to protect him from the driving rain.

The mercenary lunged forward, swinging the crackling baton toward Spencer’s head.

Spencer ducked under the swing, driving his shoulder into the attacker’s midsection, forcing him against the stone balustrade. But the mercenary was larger, grabbing Spencer by his collar and forcing him down against the slick tiles.

“Spencer!” Charlee screamed from the balcony doorway.

The little girl didn't run. She picked up a heavy bronze doorstop from the bedroom floor, ran onto the wet terrace, and slammed it with all her strength against the mercenary’s ankle.

The man yelled in pain, his balance slipping on the wet stone.

Spencer seized the moment, slamming a devastating right hook into the mercenary’s jaw, knocking him senseless over the railing. The man fell twenty feet into the bushes below.

Pamela scrambled toward the helicopter ladder, trying to pull herself up into the hovering aircraft.

“Vance! Now!” Spencer roared toward the sky.

Suddenly, two massive security spotlights snapped on from the roof of the mansion, blinding the helicopter pilot. Two Warren security SUVs breached the upper garden lawn, and Vance stepped onto the roof terrace with a high-powered tactical rifle aimed directly at the cockpit.

“Land the aircraft now!” Vance’s voice echoed through a megaphone. “Or I put two rounds through your engine block!”

The helicopter pilot didn't hesitate. Realizing the operation was compromised, he cut the winch line, leaving Pamela dangling three feet off the terrace floor before dropping her onto the slick tiles.

Four Warren security operatives flooded the balcony, pinning Pamela to the ground and pulling her arms behind her back in steel handcuffs.

The storm raged on, but the terrace fell into a sudden, decisive silence, save for the crying of baby Dexter beneath Spencer’s jacket.

Spencer sat on the wet stone floor, resting his back against the wall. He gently pulled back his coat, checking the baby. Dexter was crying loudly, but he was completely uninjured, his tiny face wet with rainwater.

Charlee dropped the bronze doorstop, ran over, and dropped to her knees beside Spencer, throwing her arms around both him and the baby.

“We got him,” Charlee sobbed, her face buried in Spencer’s wet shirt. “We saved him, Spencer.”