Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 124341 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124341 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
He picked up a chair, throwing it with all his might against the wall. The doctor screamed as it crashed, splintering to pieces. Sam roared. He’d murdered for this man. He’d done terrible, violent things for this scalpel-wielding demon. He picked up a glass table and threw that too, and it rained shards. Sam thundered and smashed and threw, demolishing his way through the doctor’s house to his office as the man screeched and rolled into a tiny ball in the corner, the evidence of the monster’s presence lying in a heap of broken glass and shattered furniture all around him.
“You’re all but dead!” the doctor screamed. “They’re coming for you, Sam. You and the woman too. Is that why you’re here? It won’t matter. They’ll find you anyway. You should know that!” He flailed his arm, his finger pointing at his desk.
You and the woman too. Sam pivoted toward the desk that held a laptop and swooped it up, the word ELIMINATE flashing on the screen. Sam’s breath exploded, the yell on his lips faltering as he looked closer at the image next to the word. No, not just one image. Photos of me and Autumn. His breath sawed in and out of his chest, the fiery fiend within glowing hotter. Dr. Heathrow had ordered a hit on Sam. And on Autumn. He thought Sam knew. He believed that was why he was here.
His living, breathing rage turned, shoulders hunching, hands rising. Dr. Heathrow’s eyes widened. There were tears on his cheeks, and he was quaking with terror. He raised his hands, a defensive gesture as Sam advanced on him.
Chapter Forty-Two
Mark’s foot eased off the accelerator as he rounded the corner, taking the exit as the GPS instructed. Sam had left, not just for one of his walks, the ones Jak called mini pilgrimages, but for good. At least that was what Autumn’s impression had been as she’d tearfully explained what he’d said.
They’d tried their best to ease Sam into the knowledge, the magnitude, of what had been done to him. But even Mark hadn’t realized the extent of the evil. It was no wonder Sam was reeling. And he’d be looking for any solid footing that would help him hold on, any possibility that his entire life hadn’t been a terrible, ghastly lie.
The other two groups Mark had found had been brainwashed as well, but they hadn’t been mutilated and pieced back together. Sam had been tortured, experimented on, horribly abused, and brainwashed to become part of a mindless cult. Men and women for hire who would do anything, kill anyone, follow any order no matter how violent or immoral.
Mark thought he knew where Sam would look for any possible stability first. Because he would hold on to a final sliver of hope. And that final sliver was Dr. Heathrow. The man Sam had made excuses for, the man Mark had seen him struggle to label a villain. His father in a sense, and Mark’s gut churned to think of it.
He pulled into the driveway of the grand, white brick colonial. He’d been pulling information on the man since he’d first heard his name from Salma Ibrahim. By anyone’s measure, he was a vastly wealthy man. Blood money. Mark would bet his life on it. There was no way a doctor could have believed the people he’d operated on had needed the surgeries Autumn had described. Sam had been told his bones were brittle, his organs diseased. But they hadn’t been. They’d cut into his healthy body and done whatever they’d wanted in the name of who knew what. An unthinkable horror. How many hadn’t made it? How many had died on the operating table or soon thereafter?
How many hadn’t had Sam’s incredible strength?
Mark jogged up the steps, slowing when he saw that the door was open, a centimeter of gleaming marble showing but nothing more. His internal alarm bells rang. He stepped to the side and then pressed the bell, leaning forward only slightly as he listened. A muffled crash. Mark removed the firearm holstered under his coat and used his foot to push the door open.
Slowly, he went inside. “Agent Mark Gallagher,” he called. “Hello?”
There was broken glass on the marble foyer floor at the open doorway to Mark’s right, and he hurried toward it, his weapon preceding him. The room was destroyed. His eyes flew from one corner to the other. Jesus. Had Sam done this?
The sound of something falling to his right had him whirling around, his gun aimed at…a cat. He let out a harsh breath, lowering his weapon as the feline scampered away.
Mark left the room and then did a quick search of both floors as he announced his presence. It appeared no one was home. In the master bedroom, Mark noted the closet door was open, a few shirts and hangers littering the floor, and on a shelf of suitcases, one spot was empty. Obviously, someone had packed in a hurry, not even bothering to fully shut the front door. Or using a different exit, the garage perhaps.