Chapter 4 - THE ARCHITECT OF LIES
Three hours later, inside a hidden private ward at a subterranean private clinic beneath a warehouse in Newark, New Jersey, Ethan was finally stabilized.
Harrison had hooked the boy to a blood transfusion system, matching his rare O-negative type with blood bags pulled from Vincent’s private vault. The boy was asleep, his chest rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic pattern under the crisp white sheets.
Vincent stood behind a sheet of two-way glass, watching his son sleep. In his hand, he held a heavy silver pocket watch—the one item he had pulled from Daniel Cross's jacket before stabbing him in the safehouse.
Inside the back casing of the watch was a micro-encryption drive.
Standing beside Vincent was Victor Vance, a man who didn't exist on any government registry. Victor was a former NSA cryptanalyst who had spent the last decade working exclusively for the Bellmont Syndicate, building their untraceable communication networks.
"Can you crack it?" Vincent asked.
Victor inserted the drive into a modified military terminal. Lines of green code cascaded down the screen like rain. "It’s 4096-bit military encryption, Vincent. The key requires three biometric signatures. But Daniel was sloppy. He kept a secondary cache file auto-syncing to a server in Zurich."
Victor hit a key. A series of high-resolution documents popped up on the monitor.
Vincent leaned in.
The documents were transport manifests. Hundreds of them. Dated over the last five years.
Names flashed across the screen: children of European diplomats, daughters of Asian shipping tycoons, sons of American senators. All reported dead in horrific, tragic accidents—plane crashes, yacht fires, sudden kidnappings that ended in "failed ransom attempts."
And at the bottom of every single manifest was a digital signature: APOLLO HOLDINGS INTERNATIONAL.
" Apollo Holdings," Victor muttered, his face turning pale. "Vincent... Apollo isn't a company. It's a private defense consortium funded by five of the largest pharmaceutical conglomerates in the world. They run off-grid bio-research facilities in non-extradition zones."
"What were they doing with the children?" Vincent asked.
"Look at these lab reports," Victor said, zooming in on a series of genetic sequences. "They weren't selling them. They were harvesting them. These kids all carry rare genetic markers—specific blood mutations that allow for advanced cellular regeneration. They’re using them to synthesize anti-aging therapies for the billionaire class."
Vincent’s fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white. The world thought these monsters were philanthropists, corporate leaders, statesmen. But beneath the expensive suits and charity galas, they were vampires, feeding on the youth of stolen children to buy themselves a few more years of life.
"And Daniel was selling them access," Vincent said.
"Worse," Victor whispered, clicking a final link. "Daniel wasn't the mastermind, Vincent. Look at the local authorization code for Saint Jude’s Academy."
Vincent looked at the screen.
The local director of Apollo’s New York operations—the man who had personally signed off on the execution of the bus crash simulation—was not a rival mob boss.
It was Judge Richard Sterling.
The Chief Justice of the New York Supreme Court. The man who had sat at Vincent’s dinner table three weeks ago, drinking Vincent’s scotch, offering his "deepest condolences" for the loss of young Ethan.
"Sterling," Vincent spat, the name tasting like ash in his mouth.
"Vincent, wait," Victor warned as Vincent turned toward the door, drawing his custom Kimber .45 from his holster. "Sterling is surrounded by State Marshals and private security twenty-four hours a day. You can't just storm the Supreme Court!"
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Vincent stopped at the door, pulling a fresh magazine from his vest and slapping it into the grip with a cold, metallic CLACK.
"I am not going to the Supreme Court," Vincent said. "Tonight, Judge Sterling is hosting the annual Police Benevolent Gala at the Plaza Hotel. And I am going to return his condolences."
