Chapter 43
FORTY-THREE
The screen replayed in silence. Vos, walking with Heather Bowman, past a private medical clinic on the eastern edge of Prague. The street was clean. It was controlled, not tourist-heavy, and not random.
Ian stood at the head of the ops table, flanked by three silent analysts and a shifting blur of satellite data on the secondary displays. He didn’t move.
Heather kept her head down. Vos walked like a man with nothing to hide.
Ian said, “Run every registry tied to that building. I want to know who owns it, funds it, operates inside it, and who’s visited in the last year. If it so much as changed cleaning crews, I want it flagged.”
One of the analysts nodded and vanished through the side door.
Ian’s eyes returned to the screen. Vos paused briefly before they entered the clinic and looked up, almost directly at the lens, with a new face. The kind of look you gave when you’d spent years waiting to walk back into daylight.
Behind him, someone cleared their throat. “Mr. Kieran Chase is still in Denver, sir. He’s already initiated containment with Claire and Mr. Collier.”
Ian nodded once. “Good, keep it that way.” He gestured to the footage. “Because if Vos brought Heather Bowman to a clinic in Prague, he’s not just hiding. He’s trying something, or he’s about to harm someone.”
Ian straightened, voice cooling to steel.
“Pull every record that clinic’s touched—patients, anonymous donors, experimental trials.
If it’s a weigh station for Vos to broker another coup, I want every call in and out traced, every contact mapped.
That’s his usual play since he was disavowed.
He stirred governments until they broke.
But…” He paused, the thought cutting sharp.
“What if it isn’t geopolitical? What if the bastard’s sick?
Or is that where he got his new face? Damn it. ”
His jaw set. “What if he wants to finish what he started in Ann Arbor?” He snapped his fingers once. “Trace every camera feed within three miles of the clinic. Street feeds, traffic grids, private security. I want to know where he’s living.”
Someone started to protest about the legalities.
Ian’s gaze cut through him like a laser. “You want to play by rules while Vos redraws the war map?”
Silence. He tapped the desk once. “Keep me updated every two hours. I don’t want a briefing. I want proof.”
PRAGUE, CZECHIA – PRIVATE MEDICAL CLINIC – SAME TIME
The ceiling tiles vibrated slightly with the hum of halogen.
Vos lay back in the recovery bed, half elevated, bandages wrapping his lower face like a second skin.
His jaw throbbed. It was a deep, pressure-cooked pain, but he didn’t flinch.
Pain meant progress. This was his second surgery altering his jawline.
Mahler finished tightening the facial wrap, his gloved fingers precise and cold. “You will bruise deeply for the next forty-eight hours,” the surgeon said. “Swelling will peak on day three. You may speak, but sparingly. No chewing solids. Avoid mirrors.”
Vos blinked once. “How long until I’m presentable?”
“Fourteen days with makeup. Twenty-one without.”
Vos gave a faint nod. “And full bone growth?”
Mahler hesitated. “Six weeks. But nerve adaptation is variable. You may drool for a few weeks longer.”
“I’m aware.”
Mahler peeled off his gloves, gave a stiff bow, and exited. The door shut softly.
The room fell quiet until Heather Bowman shifted beside him. She sat straight-backed in the visitor’s chair, her blazer impeccable, legs crossed. From her designer handbag, she pulled a thick roll of euro notes, rubber-banded and heavy.
Vos turned his head slightly and winced. Heather didn’t flinch at his expression. She placed the money on the tray beside his bed.
Scour opened the door. Dr. Lenka Marova, an OB, entered cautiously, eyes flicking between the bandaged Vos and Heather.
“I’ve confirmed the clinic schedule,” the doctor said, clearly uneasy.
“But I have to say… it’s highly irregular to request my presence only during active labor.
The birth mother isn’t even available for me to examine. ”
“She will be,” Vos interrupted, voice low and grated. “Before full-term.”
Dr. Marova shifted. “And you intend to bring her here?”
Heather folded her arms. “She’ll be brought wherever he says.”
The OB raised her brow. “I understand this delivery must be… discreet. There may be complications. For the mother’s and the baby’s lives, I need some more information.”
Vos nodded faintly. “And that’s why I also want your pediatrician in the room, from the infant’s first breath.”
“He’s agreed,” the doctor said. “But again, I must stress, seeing the birth mother at delivery, unprepared, exposed… this is not typical protocol.”
“Neither is this child.” Vos winced again. His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the water at his side.
Heather beat him to it, holding the straw. Her other hand covered his, the one resting limply on the sheet. He sipped once, then met the doctor’s eyes. Heather filled in the words. “That money ensures her safety. Nothing can go wrong. Not during labor. Not after. Not ever.”
Dr. Marova nodded once, her expression unsure. Scour escorted her out. Vos leaned back again, exhausted but lucid.
Heather stayed where she was, smoothing his blanket. “You’re sure Claire will carry to term?”
Vos’s eyes fluttered shut. “She’s young. She’s strong. And the moment the child draws breath…” he exhaled, voice dry, “everything changes.”
CHASE DENVER MEDICAL – EXAM ROOM 4A – 0830 HOURS
The sonogram gel wasn’t cold. Tuck always warmed it. He always did this with care, like every inch of this routine deserved reverence. She lay back against the incline of the table, her hand linked with Reid’s.
“Twenty-four weeks,” she whispered.
The baby filled the screen now. Whole limbs. Round cheeks. Fingers that closed and opened in real time like a magician’s flourish.
Claire tried to breathe. She tried to focus on the flicker of movement and on the flutter of that tiny foot. But Tuck wasn’t speaking yet. He angled the wand lower, jaw tightening.
Reid glanced at him, catching the tension. “Talk to us, Tuck.”
Tuck finally exhaled. “It’s there. Confirmed.”
Claire’s stomach sank. She didn’t need it explained this time.
Reid’s grip tightened slightly on her hand. Just silent anchoring.
Tuck leaned over the screen, frowning thoughtfully. “Placenta’s fully covering the cervix now. No shift upward. We’re outta the marginal zone.”
Claire stared at the ceiling. “So what does that mean?”
Tuck didn’t sugarcoat—ever. He shifted the ultrasound wand slightly, then pulled back and began wiping Claire’s abdomen clean. He gave her a look she’d come to know too well—professional, serious, but laced with care.
“It means you’re grounded, darlin’. Bedrest. Effective immediately.”
She blinked at him. “Bedrest as in…?”
“As in strict,” he said. “You're twenty-four weeks. We’ve got a micro-preemie on board, and any bleeding could trigger labor. Any standing, any weight on the cervix can cause bleeding. We can’t risk that.”
Claire felt the tension spike in her chest. “How long?”
“Until she’s out, safe and screaming.” Tuck folded the ultrasound towel. “You’re going to be monitored round-the-clock. No standing unless it’s to use the bathroom. No sex. No lifting. No work unless it’s from a bed with your feet up, and zero stress.”
She exhaled slowly. “And if I start bleeding?”
“You call me or Seth,” he said without hesitation. “If it’s heavy or persistent, we’ll admit you to inpatient care and prep for early delivery. But right now, the best-case scenario is we keep that baby in as long as we can. Thirty-four weeks is our next goalpost.”
Claire looked away, jaw clenched.
Tuck softened. “Hey.” He reached for her hand. “You’ve done everything right. But now it’s time to let us do the heavy lifting. You just focus on keeping still, hydrated, and calm.”
“I don’t do calm,” she muttered.
“You do now,” Tuck said, then added more softly, “You’ve got more than just you to fight for, Claire. And you’re not in this alone.”
But something inside her flashed hot with frustration. “I have work—”
“You have a baby,” Tuck interrupted gently but firmly, his drawl thicker than usual. “And she’s got one shot to get here safe.”
Reid said nothing, but she felt his eyes on her.
Tuck tapped a few keys on the machine. “No bleeding yet. That’s good. But we can’t chance it. You’re off your feet unless it’s medically supervised movement. I’ll call Lincoln and make it clear your office moves to your bed.”
Claire swallowed.
Tuck looked directly at her. Not as a provider. As family. “She needs you still. Calm. And careful. Got it?”
Claire nodded, quiet, not because she didn’t want to fight but because she knew he was right.
Reid shifted beside her, finally speaking. “We’ll do it together.” And he meant it. Because when he squeezed her hand, he wasn't just promising. He was preparing.
REHAB CENTER – SUITE B – 2300 HOURS
He couldn’t sleep. Too much adrenaline. Too many images. The baby’s shape on the screen. The flicker of fear in Tuck’s voice. The slow-growing hum that something else was coming. He stared out the window of their suite, Denver lights blinking against the mountains.
Claire had fallen asleep curled around a pillow, her hand unconsciously covering her stomach.
A quiet knock came. Reid checked the door camera and opened the door.
Kieran stood there in a black sweater and jeans, barefoot, holding a tablet. “They found something,” he said quietly. “In Prague.”
Reid stepped out into the hall.