Chapter 8 - Phantoms in the Fog
I lay beneath the heavy goose-down duvet in the pitch-black darkness of the master suite, forcing my breathing into a slow, rhythmic crawl.
The grandfather clock in the downstairs hallway struck eleven, its deep chimes vibrating through the floorboards like a funeral toll.
Every muscle in my body was locked in rigid tension, waiting for the sound of Daniel’s footsteps to mount the carpeted stairs.
Twenty minutes later, the bedroom door swung open silently on its oiled hinges, letting a sliver of hallway light cut across the wooden floor.
Daniel stepped into the room, wearing dark tactical trousers and a heavy black windbreaker instead of his usual silk pajamas.
He walked silently to the edge of the bed, his presence looming over me like an executioner at the foot of the scaffold.
I kept my eyes closed, allowing my mouth to fall slightly slack, simulating the deep, unresponsive stupor of a Neuropan-7 overdose.
He reached down and pinched the flesh of my upper arm with brutal, pinching force, testing for reflexive sensory withdrawal.
Pain flared white-hot across my shoulder, but thirty-eight years of enduring life's quiet miseries gave me the fortitude of stone; I did not flinch by a fraction of a millimeter.
He lifted my right wrist, checking my radial pulse with two gloved fingers before dropping my arm callously back onto the mattress.
"Saturation complete," Daniel whispered into the darkness, pulling a sleek satellite phone from his tactical jacket pocket.
He tapped the screen three times and pressed the device to his ear, walking toward the large bay windows overlooking the foggy driveway.
"This is Sterling," he spoke in a low, clipped voice that carried clearly across the silent bedroom.
"The donor is fully prepped and non-responsive; physiological vitals are stable."
"Tell the extraction team to bring the specialized transport unit to the rear service entrance at twenty-two hundred hours sharp."
"We need to be past maritime customs and aboard the vessel before the tide turns at midnight."
There was a brief pause as the person on the other end answered, their distorted metallic voice humming through the receiver.
"No, there will be no legal interference," Daniel responded coldly, staring out into the dense wall of mist rolling over the grounds.
"Her family believes she is on a private anniversary cruise in the Mediterranean for the next two weeks."
"By the time anyone notices she hasn't returned, her death certificate will be signed by our registered Swiss coroner, citing acute myocardial infarction."
"Victoria will have her new liver and kidneys before dawn, and the donor's remains will be incinerated at sea."
He terminated the call with a curt flick of his thumb and slipped the phone into his pocket.
He turned back toward the bed, looking at me one final time with an expression devoid of any human warmth, viewing me merely as spare parts for the woman he truly loved.
"You served your purpose well, Margaret," he murmured softly to the dark room.
"Thank you for giving my wife her life back."
He turned and exited the bedroom, pulling the heavy mahogany door shut behind him until the latch clicked into place.
I waited until his footsteps faded down the main staircase before opening my eyes in the dark, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped beast.
I slipped out from under the covers, moving across the room on bare feet, heading straight for the adjoining dressing room.
I retrieved my burner phone from the hollowed-out lining of my vintage leather vanity case where I had hidden it hours earlier.
I pulled up the encrypted messaging channel Dr. Harrison had set up for me and typed out the final coordinates with trembling thumbs:
ESTATE EXTRACTION CONFIRMED FOR 22:00 TONIGHT. DESTINATION IS CUTTER VESSEL 'ARTEMIS V' DOCKED AT PIER 44, OLD NORTH INDUSTRIAL HARBOR. DANIEL HAS SPECIALIZED TRANSPORT UNIT. THEY ARE HARVESTING TONIGHT.
I hit send and watched the progress bar crawl across the screen until the small green checkmark appeared.
Two seconds later, a single reply illuminated the glowing screen:
FEDERAL TACTICAL UNITS ARE MOVING INTO POSITION AT PIER 44. PLAY DEAD UNTIL WE BREACH. DO NOT BLOW YOUR COVER.
May you like
I deleted the thread, powered off the phone, and swallowed the tiny micro-SIM card down my throat with a dry gulp.
There was no turning back now; the trap was sprung, and I was the bait.
