Chapter 32 - The Iron Tally
The trauma ward at Saint Jude’s Memorial was locked down under heavy armed guard. Two tactical officers stood outside Mia’s private room on the fourth floor, their sidearms holstered but their eyes scanning every orderly and nurse who approached the threshold.
Mia slept fitfully, an IV drip feeding saline and mild pain relievers into the back of her left hand. Her right forearm was bound in a tight compression wrap where the friction of the spinning spoke had stripped away layers of skin during her final, desperate lunge for the line.
Dr. Angela Reyes walked in softly, holding a digital clipboard. She looked exhausted, dark purple smudges under her eyes, but when she looked at Mia, her expression softened into profound reverence.
"No internal bleeding, Thomas," Angela whispered, gesturing for me to step into the recessed alcove near the window. "No secondary spinal trauma. The custom seat bucket you built absorbed the brunt of that lateral skid. If that frame had been an inch looser, the rollover would have snapped her collarbone or worse."
I leaned against the glass, staring out into the drizzling rain that was finally washing the soot from the city streets. "And Arthur?"
Angela’s face hardened. "The bullet bypassed his heart by less than two centimeters. He came out of surgery two hours ago in the prison annex at County General. He’s under federal marshal custody. The Bureau took over jurisdiction the moment the explosive residue was identified as military-grade C4. Arthur is talking, Thomas. To save himself from federal death row, he is singing like a canary."
"Is Montgomery in custody?"
Angela hesitated. She looked down at her tablet, sliding her thumb across the screen before turning it toward me. "The SUV they found abandoned in the rail yards belonged to Apex Steel. But Montgomery wasn't in it. Just his driver, tied to the steering column with a fractured jaw. Montgomery had an emergency private charter waiting at an unregistered strip outside Mercer County."
My stomach turned to ice. "He left the country."
"Worse," Angela said grimly. "He cleared out his primary holding vaults before Callahan’s broadcast even finished airing. Frank’s leak ruined Montgomery’s political clout and froze his domestic bank accounts, but it backed a cornered wolf into the wild. He’s liquid. He has private security assets that don't answer to state laws. And according to the marshals, Montgomery left a single encrypted voice memo on the desk of the presiding grand jury judge."
"What did it say?"
Angela met my eyes. "'The track isn't closed. It's just expanded.'"
A soft rustle from the hospital bed broke the silence. Mia had shifted onto her side, her eyes fluttering open beneath the pale fluorescent light. She looked at the television mounted in the corner, which was muted but looping footage of the finish line—showing her three-wheeled racer crossing the line in a shower of sparks just as the screen exploded in fire.
"Dad?" she whispered.
I walked over immediately, kneeling beside the bed and taking her small, warm hand in mine. "I'm right here, sweetie."
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"My chair," she murmured, her voice raw. "Is it fixable?"
I looked at the daughter who had looked death in the eyes and refused to yield an inch of ground. A lump formed in my throat, swallowed only by a surge of unyielding resolve. "We’ll build a better one, Mia. Stronger than iron."
