Chapter 5 - Whispers in the Hurricane's EyeChristian Vance Junior’s heavy combat boots struck the damp concrete floor of the east seawall corridor with rhythmic, terrifying precision.
Behind him marched Barrett and two armed security operatives, their tactical flashlights cutting through the pitch-black shadows of the underground labyrinth. The air grew progressively hotter and heavier, smelling of stagnant mold, ocean salt, and—faintly—clean rosewater.
Christian stopped dead in his tracks.
Before him stood the heavy iron door of Room 1B. There was no medical plaque on the wall, no nurse’s call button, and no institutional supervision. Only a heavy, rusted padlock hanging menacingly from a reinforced steel latch.
“Open it,” Christian ordered, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet baritone.
Barrett stepped forward, raised a heavy crowbar, and brought it down against the rusted padlock with a single, brutal strike.
CRACK.
The iron shackle snapped instantly. Barrett shoved the heavy door open, and it groaned against its hinges, releasing a wave of hot, damp air mingled with the unmistakable scent of fresh linen and citrus.
Christian stepped inside, sweeping his tactical flashlight across the subterranean vault.
The beam of light illuminated a battered wooden crate, a high-powered industrial oscillating fan, a clean washbasin, and an emaciated, white-haired man sitting in a rusted, broken-wheeled steel wheelchair in the center of the room.
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Christian froze. The blood drained entirely from his face.
His flashlight beam shook slightly as it swept over his father—Don Christian Vance Senior—sitting in squalor in a concrete oven while he had been told the old man was resting in luxurious private care.
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