Chapter 18 - A Monster in the Dark
The color drained from Dr. Richard Cole’s face until he looked far more like a corpse than Maxwell ever had. His hand holding the pistol began to shake, the small black barrel wobbling between Martha and the man on the bed.
"You... you can't be..." Cole stammered, his voice cracking with sheer disbelief. "The neurotoxin... the dosage was irreversible! I administered the full compound myself every single week!"
"You administered salt water, you arrogant bastard," Maxwell growled, his grip on the shotgun rock-steady. "My nurse knows more about pharmacology than you ever will."
Cole’s eyes darted frantically toward Martha, realizing in an instant the trap that had been closing around him. Panic overtook his calculated demeanor. With a desperate snarl, he pivoted his weapon, aiming directly at Maxwell’s chest.
He never got the chance to pull the trigger.
Maxwell didn't even need to fire the shotgun. With blinding speed that defied fourteen months of supposed atrophy, he lunged forward off the bed, his massive left arm sweeping out like an iron bar.
The heavy walnut stock of the shotgun slammed into Cole’s wrist with a sickening *crack*.
The pistol flew from Cole’s hand, clattering harmlessly across the broken glass on the floor. Cole let out a high-pitched shriek of agony, clutching his shattered wrist to his chest.
Before the doctor could take another breath, Maxwell was on his feet.
He didn't stumble. He didn't waver. Fueled by fourteen months of silent, concentrated fury, Maxwell closed the distance in half a heartbeat. He dropped the shotgun onto the mattress and grabbed Cole by the throat with both hands, lifting the grown man several inches off the floor and slamming him backward against the heavy oak armoire.
The wood groaned under the impact.
Cole choked, his legs kicking uselessly in the air, his hands frantically clawing at Maxwell’s iron grip. Maxwell leaned in, his face inches from Cole’s bulging eyes, his expression carved from stone and vengeance.
"You killed my mother," Maxwell said, his voice dropping into a deadly, horrifying whisper that cut straight through the roaring wind. "You signed her death certificate. You took Evelyn’s money twenty years ago, and then you came back for me."
"M-Maxwell..." Cole wheezed, his face turning a deep, suffocating purple. "Mercy... it was... Evelyn... she planned it all..."
"Mercy?" Maxwell’s lips curled into a chilling sneer. "You stood over my bed with a needle full of potassium while I couldn't move a finger. Where was your mercy, Doctor?"
Martha stepped forward through the wind and rain, her voice cutting through the violence. "Maxwell! Don't kill him!"
Maxwell didn't loosen his grip. His knuckles were white, his biceps bulging through his linen shirt. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't snap his neck right now, Martha."
"Because a dead man can't testify against Evelyn Delaney," Martha said firmly, stepping directly beside him, placing her hand gently on his forearm. Her touch was warm against his tense, corded muscle. "If you kill him, she claims self-defense. She claims you had a psychotic break. She takes the company, and you spend the rest of your life in a maximum-security asylum. We need him alive. We need his signed confession."
Maxwell stared at Cole for three long, agonizing seconds. The doctor’s eyes were rolling back in his head, his consciousness fading.
Slowly, deliberately, Maxwell released his throat.
Cole crumpled to the floor in a heap, coughing violently, gasping for air, clutching his crushed windpipe as he wept against the bloody glass.
Maxwell stood over him, breathing heavily, the rain soaking his dark hair as the storm poured through the shattered terrace doors. He looked down at Martha, the lethal fire in his eyes softening for the briefest moment as their gazes met.
"You're bleeding," Maxwell said softly, noticing the cuts on her hands from the glass and the stone ledge.
"I've had worse," Martha replied, offering a faint, defiant smile. "We don't have much time. Evelyn has Marcus waiting at the foot of the stairs. If Cole doesn't come down in ten minutes to call the private ambulance, Marcus is coming up with a hit squad."
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Maxwell picked up Cole’s fallen pistol from the floor, checked the magazine with effortless familiarity, and chambered a round.
"Marcus won't be coming up," Maxwell said coldly. He turned his gaze toward the cowering doctor on the floor. "Get up, Cole. You're going to write down every transaction, every offshore account, and every murder you committed for Evelyn Delaney. And then... you're going to call a family meeting."
