Chapter 4

Bruce turned around.

The killing intent in his eyes vanished completely.

He took off his blood-stained black coat and threw it on the floor. He knelt on one knee beside the hospital bed, trying hard to make his expression look less stiff.

After seven years of killing, he had long forgotten how to smile.

"Don't be afraid." Bruce reached out his hand, his movement stiff as it stopped in mid-air, worried that the calluses on his fingertips might scratch Freya's cheek.

Freya shrank back, her back pressing against the metal bed rail.

"Are you here to catch me?" Freya's voice trembled. "I've been good, I didn't cry."

Bruce's heart clenched.

He could clearly see the dense needle marks on Freya's arm. Those were traces left from long-term blood draws and tests.

He withdrew his hand and pulled out a candy from his inner pocket, warmed by his body heat.

He had grabbed it from a gang member's pocket at the dock.

Peeling off the wrapper, he held it out to her.

Bruce softened his voice, "Have some candy."

Freya looked at the candy and swallowed, not daring to take it. "The doctor said candy will rot my teeth."

"He lied to you," Bruce said. "It's sweet. It won't hurt."

After a long hesitation, Freya reached out her small hand, took the candy, and put it in her mouth. The cheap sweetness spread across her tongue, and Freya's dull eyes brightened for a moment.

"Thank you, sir."

"Not sir." Bruce's Adam's apple bobbed, his voice hoarse. "It's daddy."

Freya froze. She even stopped chewing, staring blankly at the tall man before her.

"Mommy said daddy went far away."

"So now I'm back." Bruce opened his arms.

Freya's mouth quivered. The fear and grievance she had suppressed for so long completely exploded in that moment. She dropped her Barbie doll and threw herself into Bruce's arms, crying out loud.

"Daddy! They want to take my blood! It's so cold here, I want mommy!"

Bruce tightened his arms. Freya felt so light, as if she weighed nothing at all.

"Daddy's taking you home."

Bruce stood up, holding Freya against his chest with one arm, his left hand cradling the ebony box filled with his comrade's ashes.

Footsteps echoed from the corridor outside.

Dozens of hospital security guards holding high-voltage stun batons blocked the operating room exit.

The crowd parted, and a middle-aged white man in a suit and gold-rimmed glasses walked out.

It was the director of Boston Private Hospital, Smith.

Smith glanced at the black doctor lying in the rubble, his face extremely grim.

"Put the child down." Smith pushed up his glasses. "Sir, whoever you are, you're interfering with a legal medical procedure."

Bruce didn't stop walking.

The guards raised their stun batons, which crackled with electricity.

Smith spoke coldly, "Donald has signed a voluntary donation agreement. All procedures are legal and proper. We're just following protocol. If you hand over the child now, I can pretend nothing happened."

"Protocol?" Bruce stopped.

"That's right, legally recognized protocol." Smith's tone was arrogant.

Bruce's lips curved into a cruel smile. "What protocol allows you to forcibly remove a six-year-old child's heart?"

Smith frowned. This man knew the details.

"The Duke's life is worth ten thousand times more than this child!" Smith lost his patience and barked orders, "Take him down! Dead or alive, just keep the heart intact!"

Dozens of guards roared and charged forward.

Freya was so scared she closed her eyes and buried her face in Bruce's neck.

"Close your eyes and count to ten." Bruce patted Freya's back.

"One..." Freya's voice trembled.

Bruce moved.

Holding Freya and the urn with one arm, he pushed off with his right leg. The marble floor cracked.

The guard in front only saw darkness before Bruce's knee slammed into his chest.

Ribs shattered. The guard spewed blood and flew backward, knocking down five or six people behind him.

"Two..."

Bruce dodged a stun baton aimed at his face and chopped his right hand into the attacker's throat.

The windpipe was crushed.

"Three..."

He grabbed a stun baton without turning it on, using it purely as a metal rod.

Sweeping. Smashing.

The sound of breaking bones filled the corridor. Bruce made no wasted movements; every strike hit vital points.

This was pure killing technique forged on the battlefield.

"Seven..."

By the time Freya counted to seven, there were no guards left standing in the corridor.

The floor was covered with bodies writhing in pain, unable even to scream.

Blood stained the white walls.

Smith stood frozen. His gold-rimmed glasses slid down to the tip of his nose.

He watched Bruce walk toward him through the blood, his legs trembling.

"Do you know who the Duke is? You've offended the most dangerous person in Boston!" Smith shouted, trying to sound threatening.

Bruce walked up to Smith.

His right hand shot out, grabbed Smith's hair, and yanked down. At the same time, his right knee came up.

Smith's nose shattered. He knelt on the ground, face covered in blood.

Bruce stepped on Smith's right hand, his shoe grinding the finger bones.

Smith screamed.

"I don't care who the Duke is." Bruce looked down at him. "Tell him to wait for me. I've reserved his life."

He pressed down with his foot.

Smith's right hand bones shattered.

"Ten." Freya finished counting.

She opened one eye and only saw Bruce's broad jawline. The corridor was quiet, and all those bad people with stun batons were lying on the ground.

"Daddy, what happened to them?"

"They're tired. They've fallen asleep." Bruce stepped over Smith's body and walked toward the elevator.

"Where are we going now?"

Bruce pressed the elevator button, his gaze piercing through the hospital's glass curtain wall toward downtown Boston.

That's where the Mickinson Grand Hotel was located.

"To pick up mommy."

The night wind howled.

Outside the Boston Private Hospital entrance, more than a dozen heavy armored vehicles had completely blocked off the entire street.

Fully armed Apocalypse Mercenaries soldiers stood at attention in the night.

Bruce walked out the main entrance carrying Freya.

"Commander!" The lead officer rushed forward and knelt on one knee. "The hospital perimeter has been cleared. We can destroy this building at any time."

"Leave it. Let Hank handle it." Bruce placed Freya in the back seat of a bulletproof Rolls-Royce.

Freya looked at the fierce-looking men in black outside and clutched Bruce's collar tightly.

Bruce spoke softly to comfort her, "Don't be afraid, they're daddy's colleagues."

The car door closed.

Bruce turned to the officer, the warmth in his eyes replaced by arctic coldness.

"What's the situation at Mickinson Grand Hotel?"

The officer bowed his head and spoke rapidly, "Commander, 3,000 elite Apocalypse Mercenaries soldiers have taken control of all high points and traffic routes within a 10-mile radius of Mickinson Grand Hotel. The Watson family used their business connections to cut off the hotel's external communications and surveillance network. The people inside are basically blind and deaf now."

Bruce looked at Freya sleeping in his arms. Tear stains remained at the corners of her eyes, her small hands gripping his collar tightly. Even in her dreams, her body would still tremble from time to time.

"Set out."

The Rolls-Royce convoy started up, engines rumbling low, driving into the Boston night.