Chapter 4 - The Swiss ExtractionThirty-six hours later.
The private Gulfstream jet cut through the thick grey clouds hovering over the snow-capped peaks of the Swiss Alps.
Inside the cabin, the atmosphere was dead silent. Julian sat in a leather armchair, a secure laptop resting on his knees. Next to him sat Marcus, along with two elite private military contractors hired from a London security firm—men who specialized in high-risk extractions in foreign jurisdictions.
On the screen in front of Julian was a live audio feed connecting him to the United States District Court in Seattle.
Through the speaker, the deep, resonant voice of Federal Judge Thomas Sterling—Victoria’s uncle—echoed through the cabin.
"Mr. Vance," the judge’s voice crackled through the satellite line. "The evidence you submitted via your legal team two hours ago is... staggering. The federal wiretaps on Sterling Holdings are already active. Federal marshals are currently executing search warrants at nine locations across New York and Chicago."
"What about Victoria?" Julian asked cold, measured tone.
"She is being held without bail at the Federal Detention Center in SeaTac," Judge Sterling replied, his voice laced with disgust for his own kin. "The charges against her include attempted murder, kidnapping, corporate sabotage, and conspiracy. Her father was arrested forty minutes ago at his estate in Greenwich."
Julian closed the laptop with a snap.
Justice was moving in America, but Julian’s mind was thousands of miles away, focused entirely on a remote pine-covered valley near the village of Sion, Switzerland.
The St. Jude Clinic for Neurological Rehabilitation.
On paper, it was a high-end private asylum catering to wealthy families seeking discrete care for elderly relatives suffering from dementia. In reality, as Julian’s investigators had discovered during the flight across the Atlantic, it was a black-market facility owned through three layers of Panama shell companies—all financed by Victoria Sterling.
The jet touched down smoothly on the tarmac of the private airfield in Sion. A fleet of three black Mercedes vans was waiting near the hangar, their engines idling against the crisp, freezing alpine air.
"We have sixteen minutes before the local Swiss police arrive with the official federal warrant," Marcus said, handing Julian a thermal tactical jacket and a pair of heavy leather gloves. "The clinic’s director, a Dr. Hans Becker, has already been alerted that something is wrong. His security detail is on high alert."
"They won't stop us," Julian said, zipping up his jacket.
"Julian," Marcus cautioned, placing a hand on the younger man’s arm. "We don't know what condition Leo is in. Six years of heavy chemical sedation... brain trauma... he might not recognize you. He might not even know his own name."
Julian looked out the tinted window at the jagged, snow-draped mountains rising around them.
"I don't care if he knows his name," Julian said softly. "He will know mine."
Ten minutes later, the three Mercedes vans tore through the wrought-iron gates of the St. Jude Clinic, smashing the electronic lock mechanism into pieces.
The vehicles screeched to a halt in the stone courtyard of the slate-roofed facility. Before the clinic’s private guards could react, six heavily armed operators flooded out of the vans, securing the main entrance and neutralizing the security team with non-lethal shock weapons.
Julian pushed through the heavy wooden front doors, his boots echoing loudly through the silent, white-tiled lobby.
A tall, thin man in a white doctor's coat—Dr. Becker—was frantically trying to shred documents in a corner office.
Julian walked into the office, grabbed Becker by the lapels of his coat, and slammed him against the wall, shattering a glass medical diploma hanging behind his head.
"Room 404," Julian demanded, his gray eyes burning with lethal intent. "Now."
Dr. Becker’s face turned white. "Monsieur, please! This is a private medical facility, you have no legal authority—"
Marcus stepped forward, drawing a silenced sidearm and pressing the cold barrel directly beneath Becker’s ear. "He didn't ask for a legal opinion, Doctor. He asked for a room number."
Becker swallowed hard, trembling violently. "Fourth floor... east wing. The last door on the left."
Julian released him, letting the doctor slide to the floor, and sprinted toward the elevator.
The fourth floor of the clinic was dead quiet, smelling heavily of chlorine and heavy sedatives. The walls were painted a dull, clinical blue, completely devoid of windows or artwork.
Julian walked slowly down the long corridor toward the last door on the left.
A heavy iron plate was bolted over the door’s narrow observation window. A heavy electronic keypad flickered red beside the handle.
Marcus stepped up with an electronic override device, plugging a cable into the lock’s diagnostic port. Three seconds passed. The light shifted from red to green with a high-pitched beep.
The heavy magnetic lock disengaged.
Julian reached out, his hand shaking uncontrollably as his fingers brushed the cold steel handle.
Six years. Six years of living in a world without his brother. Six years of carrying a guilt that had nearly crushed his soul.
He pressed the handle down and pushed the door open.
The room was tiny, illuminated only by a small high-set window near the ceiling that let in the pale, cold alpine light. The walls were padded with grey canvas.
In the center of the room sat a simple narrow bed.
A man was sitting on the edge of the mattress, his back turned to the door. He wore a simple grey sweatsuit. His hair was long, reaching his shoulders, streaked with premature grey. His body was thin, emaciated, his shoulders hunched inward as if trying to shrink away from the light.
At the sound of the door opening, the man didn't jump. He didn't turn around. He simply pulled his knees up to his chest, shielding his head with his hands—a habit formed through years of strict, brutal confinement.
"Please..." the man rasped, his voice rough, hollow, and dry like crushed gravel. "No more injections today... please... I’ll be quiet..."
Julian felt his knees buckle. The sound of that voice—ruined, terrified, stripped of its old joyful brightness—struck his heart with unbearable pain.
"Leo..." Julian choked out.
The man on the bed froze.
Slowly—agonizingly slowly—he lowered his hands from his face. He turned his head, his wide, sunken blue eyes catching the dim light.
A jagged, crescent-shaped scar sat right above his left eyebrow.
He stared at Julian. His brow furrowed in deep, agonizing confusion as his drug-clouded brain fought through six years of chemical fog, trying to pull a ghost from the shadows of his memory.
"J... Julian?" Leo whispered, his voice trembling violently.
Julian dropped to his knees on the cold floor, tears spilling freely down his face as he reached out his arms.
"I’m here, Leo," Julian sobbed, his voice echoing off the padded walls. "I’m here, brother. I’m taking you home."
Leo stared at him for a long, breathless moment. Then, a small, choked gasp tore from his chest. The broken young man threw himself off the bed, collapsing into Julian’s arms, weeping uncontrollably as he gripped his brother’s coat with raw, desperate strength.
Julian held him tight, wrapping his body around his younger brother, feeling the fragile, thin frame trembling against his chest.
Over Leo’s shoulder, Julian looked up at the grey sky visible through the high window.
May you like
The monster had been caught. The truth had been unearthed.
And for the first time in six long years, Blackwood Manor was about to welcome its lost son home.
