Chapter 4 - Six WordsThe moment the latch of the door clicked shut, the weak, helpless expression vanished from my face.
I pulled my right hand out from under the blanket. My fingers were trembling, but not from fear—from a cold, concentrated rage that had been building inside my chest for seven years.
I turned my head toward the bedside wall. Mounted beside the blood pressure monitor was the internal hospital intercom and nurse call button.
I pressed the red button three times in rapid succession.
Ten seconds later, a middle-aged nurse with tired eyes and a blue uniform pushed open the door. “Yes, Mrs. Mercer? Are you in pain? Do you need more medication?”
“Nurse... please,” I said, my voice low and urgent. “My husband took my phone to recharge it in his car. I need to make an emergency call to my estate attorney regarding my medical proxy before I go into full recovery. Is there a line I can use?”
The nurse hesitated, looking toward the door. “Well, routine calls are usually handled after morning rounds—”
“Please,” I pressed, looking her directly in the eyes. “It’s urgent.”
Recognizing the intensity in my gaze, the nurse reached into her apron pocket, pulled out a cordless hospital phone, and handed it to me. “Keep it brief, honey. The doctor will be in for morning rounds in twenty minutes.”
“Thank you.”
My fingers flew across the keypad. I didn't need a contact list. I didn't need an address book. I had memorized this specific eleven-digit private number two years ago, praying I would never actually have to use it.
The phone rang once. Twice.
On the third ring, a deep, raspy, unhurried voice answered.
“Vance.”
Hearing the voice of James Vance—a legendary former federal prosecutor turned elite corporate asset-recovery specialist—sent a wave of freezing clarity through my veins.
I took a slow, deep breath, pressing the receiver tight against my ear.
I spoke six words.
“James, activate the Mercer contingency plan.”
There was a brief, razor-sharp silence on the line. I could hear the faint sound of a fountain pen being set down on a glass desk three hundred miles away in downtown Chicago.
“Is the cloud transmission verified, Claire?” James asked, his voice completely devoid of emotion.
“Yes,” I replied quietly. “Everything was captured. The assault, the coercion, the financial demands, and the stolen $3.8 million. It’s all on the server.”
“Understood,” James said softly. “Where are you now?”
“St. Jude Memorial. Room 412. Evan just left to make a call. He expects me to sign the share transfers when he returns with his parents tomorrow morning.”
“He won't get the chance,” James said smoothly. “My medical transport team will be at St. Jude in forty-five minutes. By the time the sun comes up, you will be in a private surgical recovery suite at the Lakeshore Facility under 24-hour armed protection.”
“And Mercer Logistics?” I asked.
A slow, grim smile practically radiated through the phone line from James.
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“By 9:00 AM tomorrow, your husband and his parents will realize that breaking your leg was the cheapest price they’ll ever pay. Sleep now, Claire. The wolves are on the field.”
I handed the phone back to the nurse, closed my eyes, and for the first time in seven years, I slept without fear.
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