Chapter 4

The two guards unholstered their weapons. The cold, hollow muzzles pointed directly at the back of Holden's skull. The sharp clack of the safeties being disengaged echoed in the room.

Holden didn't even turn his head. His left hand blurred. He delivered a surgical, pinpoint knife-hand strike directly to Dr. Vance's carotid sinus. The doctor's eyes rolled back, and he slumped to the floor, unconscious.

Cordelia let out a feral scream and lunged at Holden, trying to claw his eyes out. Holden caught her by the waist and tossed her effortlessly onto a plush armchair, like she weighed nothing.

Warren snatched a gun from one of the guards. His hands shook violently as he aimed it at Holden's chest, screaming at him to back away from the body.

"Shoot, and he dies," Holden said. His voice was a low, terrifying rumble that carried a physical weight. The sheer, suffocating killing intent in the room froze Warren's finger on the trigger.

Taking advantage of their paralysis, Holden's hands moved with terrifying speed. He grabbed the ruined edges of Alistair's shirt and ripped it completely open.

His eyes locked onto a jagged, faded scar running across the old man's sternum. He pinpointed the exact location of the clot. His focus narrowed to a razor's edge.

Holden took a deep breath. He drew upon a highly classified, near-forgotten battlefield trauma technique. Taking a sharp breath, he adjusted his stance and pooled all his physical strength into a precise, targeted strike. Without warning, he drove his fist down. He struck Alistair's lower left ribcage with absolute, calculated precision, using a specific angle meant to violently dislodge the blockage without breaking the bone. A sickening, heavy thud echoed through the room.

Beatrice couldn't handle the visual trauma. Her eyes rolled back, and she fainted dead away into the butler's arms.

Cordelia shrieked, sobbing hysterically as she called him a murderer, struggling to get up from the chair.

Holden tuned out the noise. He extended his left index and middle fingers, locking them together like a steel spike. He drove his fingers hard into three specific nerve clusters along Alistair's spine with a brutal, rhythmic pressure. It was an extreme acupressure technique utilized by desperate combat medics in the trenches, designed to forcefully shock the central nervous system and trigger a violent biological reboot.

Alistair's body convulsed. He arched off the sofa like a fish pulled from water, a horrifying, wet rattling sound tearing from his throat.

Warren snapped. His eyes bloodshot, he pulled the trigger. But his terror threw his aim off. The bullet shattered the massive crystal chandelier above them.

A torrential rain of razor-sharp glass rained down. Holden threw his broad shoulders over Alistair, letting the heavy shards slice through his cheap jacket and bite into his back.

He didn't flinch. He struck Alistair's back one more time, delivering a final, brutal kinetic shock.

Alistair's eyes snapped open. They were completely bloodshot. He lurched forward and violently vomited a massive mouthful of black, foul-smelling, clotted blood.

The putrid blood splattered directly across the chest of the newly conscious Dr. Vance, who let out a horrified, gagging squeal.

With the lethal clot expelled, the terrifying purple hue drained from Alistair's face. His chest began to heave, sucking in massive, greedy lungfuls of air.

The portable heart monitor Vance had attached suddenly chimed. The flatline broke into a strong, steady, rhythmic beep.

Dead silence fell over the grand hall. Everyone stared at Holden, who was calmly wiping the old man's black blood off his knuckles with a tissue, looking at him like he was a monster.

Dr. Vance ignored the blood soaking his coat. He scrambled on his hands and knees to the monitor, rubbing his eyes in disbelief.

He grabbed Alistair's wrist, feeling the strong, thumping pulse. His jaw literally dropped open.

The doctor whipped his head around to stare at Holden. His voice cracked as he asked if that was the lost, classified military technique known as the combat nerve-reset.

Holden tossed the bloody tissue perfectly into a brass trash can. He looked away, his expression feigning a mix of annoyance and nervous deflection. "An old mercenary doc taught me some dirty trench tricks overseas," he muttered, waving a hand dismissively. "As long as it keeps him breathing, don't ask so many damn questions."

The gun slipped from Warren's numb fingers, hitting the floor with a heavy clatter. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the rug, gasping for air.

Cordelia pressed both hands over her mouth. Tears spilled over her eyelashes. She looked at her grandfather breathing steadily, and the pure hatred in her eyes fractured into deep, agonizing confusion.

Alistair slumped back against the pillows. His breathing was heavy, but his eyes locked onto Holden with a burning, fanatical reverence.

The old man raised a shaking hand, signaling the butler to help him sit up. His piercing gaze swept over his family, preparing to hand down an absolute mandate.