Chapter 3: The Black Armada
At that exact moment, twenty miles away at the heavily guarded Prescott estate, three jet-black Sikorsky executive helicopters were already spinning up, their rotors emitting a deafening roar.
I would later learn from Harrison Cole’s meticulously compiled security dossier exactly how my grandfather orchestrated his arrival. Richard Prescott, dressed in a tailored black suit, sat in his custom wheelchair, his face as dark and violent as the ocean before a squall.
“Sir, choppers one through five are primed. The other five are departing from the Midtown helipad right now,” his executive secretary had shouted over the noise. “Emergency flight paths are cleared by the FAA.”
“Where is the legal team?” Richard had demanded.
“Harrison Cole and twelve senior partners are boarding Chopper Two. They’ve just finished pulling Donovan Hayes’s financial records and hotel logs for the last 36 months.”
Richard had let out a dark sneer. “Contact the CEO of Vanguard Acquisitions. I want a total hostile buyout of Apex Solutions completed by 3:00 PM today. I want Donovan’s precious little regional manager title turned into toilet paper.”
Back in my semi-private hospital room, the noisy family next door was still chatting loudly. “Hey, look at the news! Why are there so many helicopters heading toward this neighborhood?” The husband pointed at his phone, shocked. “Everyone on Twitter is saying a fleet of ten black choppers is flying in formation straight for the hospital zone!”
Everyone in the room crowded by the window. I turned my head, staring up at the blue sky. On the horizon, a tiny black speck was rapidly enlarging. Then a second. Then a third. Even through the double-paned soundproof glass, the deafening thud-thud-thud of massive rotor blades began to echo ominously over the hospital. I slowly closed my eyes, listening to that approaching mechanical roar. My fingertips, which had gone icy from blood loss, finally began to warm up.
Outside the main entrance, a white Toyota Corolla slammed on its brakes. According to the hospital plaza security footage I reviewed later, Donovan shoved the driver’s side door open, tugging at the hem of his wrinkled suit jacket. The passenger door opened, and Khloe stepped out in her red heels. Brenda struggled out of the back, clutching the sleeping toddler.
They marched up to the caution tape, only to be blasted by gale-force winds as three jet-black helicopters descended in a V-formation, touching down on the hospital’s roof helipad and the front plaza simultaneously. Close behind them, seven more black dots roared into view.
Brenda squeezed her eyes shut against the wind, clutching the baby to her chest and screaming, “Lord Almighty! Are we going to war or something?”
Donovan watched the line of imposing bodyguards pour out of the choppers, flanking a group of sharp corporate men carrying leather briefcases. His annoyed expression vanished instantly, replaced by a poorly concealed look of fanatical awe. He turned to Khloe, trying to sound knowledgeable. “See that? That’s how real Wall Street titans travel. Some massive VIP must be checking in today.”
Donovan pulled his phone out, finally seeing the dozen missed calls from the maternity ward. Annoyance flashed across his face. “Mom, L probably had the babies. Wait here. I’ll go up and show my face so she doesn’t throw one of her dramatic fits. Why does she need the whole family revolving around her?”
He strutted toward the entrance, only to be blocked by two six-foot-three bodyguards who looked like twin brick walls. “Halt. Area secured. No entry,” one barked.
Humiliated, Donovan retreated and pulled out his phone to call me. Up in my room, my backup phone began to buzz. I extended a pale finger and swiped to answer.
“L, you’re blowing up my phone!” Donovan’s arrogant, righteous voice blasted through the speaker before I could even breathe. “I told you I was in a high-security meeting with the London clients! You are so inconsiderate.”
“A meeting?” I breathed out, zero emotion in my tone.
“Yeah, a multi-million dollar contract. Did you have them? Boy or girl?”
“Boy and girl twins,” I said, shifting my gaze to a potted plant.
“That’s incredible! See, I told you yesterday you were just being soft. Natural birth is way better. Saves money. I work hard to bring home the bacon. You stay home and make babies. Perfect system, right?”
I looked away from the plant. “Bring home the bacon at the Ritz?” My tone was airy, like I was discussing the weather.
On the other end of the line, Donovan’s pacing abruptly stopped. The ambient noise of the plaza seemed to suck into a vacuum. “What did you just say?” his voice violently trembled.
“Next time you’re cutting cake with clients,” my eyes turned dead cold, “tell Khloe not to wear the red dress. It clashes with the gold cross around Mason’s neck.”
I could practically hear the grenade detonating inside his skull. “Listen to me, L, let me explain! It’s a massive misunderstanding—”
“Take the VIP elevator,” I ruthlessly cut off his pathetic scrambling. “Someone is waiting for you upstairs.” I hung up.
Minutes later, the heavy wooden door to my hospital room crashed open. Donovan marched in, standing at the foot of my bed, looking down at me with his usual commanding tone, flanked by Brenda and Khloe.
“Eleanor, what the hell were you spewing on the phone?” he demanded, gripping the bed rail. “Yes, I was at the Ritz. I was entertaining the biggest clients in the Midwest. Khloe was there because she’s my secretary. That gold cross belonged to the client’s kid. You just had major surgery, your brain is scrambled. I’ll let it slide this time.”
I stared at his flushed face. “Checking account ending in 4209,” I spoke, my voice feather-light.
Donovan’s fingers twitched violently.
“On the 15th of last month, a transfer of fifty thousand dollars,” I held his gaze. “The memo line read: Mason’s College Fund.”
Donovan’s breathing stopped dead. He had opened that bank account in secret. He had the paper statements mailed directly to his office. How could his frumpy, stay-at-home wife possibly know that $50,000 was stolen directly from the advanced payment for Apex Solutions’ Phase 3 project?
“A digital copy of the wire transfer is in my email inbox right now,” I added.
“You investigated me?” Donovan choked out, panic bleeding into his voice.
“I didn’t need to,” I replied. “You’re just sloppy.”
Brenda pushed past him, slapping her hand down hard on the mattress. “So what if my son gave her some money?! Khloe gave the Hayes family a grandson! She’s a saint. And you? You’ve been draining my son’s wallet dry! Pack your bags. We’re discharging you this afternoon. Khloe and Mason can take this room for a nap.”
Donovan straightened up, slipping back into his cold persona. “Since you know everything, I’m done pretending. Mason is my flesh and blood. When you get discharged, you’re signing the deed to the apartment over to my mom. You keep your head down, raise the twins, and you get to keep the title of Mrs. Hayes.”
I listened to his speech. No hysterical screaming. No furious tears.
“Okay. Understood,” I replied with a simple, flat sentence.
Donovan blinked, caught completely off guard by how easily I folded. The corners of his mouth had just begun to curve into a victorious smirk when—CRASH!
The heavy wooden door was kicked open with apocalyptic force. It slammed against the drywall, the sound like a bomb detonating.
