“Please, just pretend you’re hugging me,” a terrified eight-year-old boy whispered after crashing into me on a rain-soaked Chicago sidewalk and wrapping both arms around my leather vest.

(Word count: ~1,510 words)

I held Sterling against the iron bars for three agonizing seconds, feeling his rapid pulse against his throat. Every muscle in my body screamed at me to drag his head through the steel pickets and end him right there on the wet pavement.

“Andrew, don't!” Marcus warned sharply, his gun pointed straight at the head of Sterling’s lead tactical officer. “Not like this! Don't give them a reason to breach the gate!”

I shoved Sterling backward with enough force to send him stumbling into his security guards. He caught his footing, wiping the blood from his mouth with a silk handkerchief, his twisted smile never fading.

“You have until midnight, Whitman,” Sterling rasped, adjusting his coat. “If that child isn't returned to St. Jude’s by twelve, the state police, the city inspectors, and every tactical unit in Cook County will tear this warehouse apart brick by brick.”

Sterling turned on his heel and walked toward his black SUV. The police officers gave us one last wary look before getting back into their cruisers and speeding away into the dark rain.

We waited until their taillights vanished down the industrial boulevard before Marcus lowered his weapon.

“He knows something, Andrew,” Marcus said, his voice deep with concern. “He mentioned Sarah by name. He knew she was involved eight years ago.”

“Come inside,” I growled, turning back toward the Clubhouse doors. “We need to do a DNA check right now.”

We headed straight down to the underground shelter beneath the armory.

The room was warm and well-lit, stacked with emergency provisions and spare gear. Ethan was sitting on a cot, wrapped in a thick wool blanket, watching Doc assemble a portable medical DNA testing kit on a stainless steel tray.

“Did they leave?” Ethan asked quietly as I walked in.

“Yeah,” I said, sitting down beside him on the cot. “They left for now.”

Doc pulled a sterile cotton swab from a plastic pouch. “Boss, I’ve got the rapid-sequencer kit we keep for club lineage verifications. It takes forty-five minutes to process a child-paternal match, but I need a sample from you and a sample from Ethan.”

“Do it,” I ordered.

Doc gently swabbed the inside of Ethan’s cheek, securing the sample in a glass vial, then took a quick swab from the inside of my mouth. He inserted both samples into a compact, high-tech silver analyzer machine resting on the table.

While the machine chimed and began its automated cycle, I pulled out my phone and dialed a private number I hadn't called in over a year.

It rang three times before a sharp, professional voice answered.

“Whitman? I told you never to call this line unless the club was under federal indictment.”

It was Vance Mercer—Chicago’s most ruthless high-end private investigator and a former black-ops intelligence contractor who owed me his life after I pulled him out of a burning wreck five years ago.

“I need a full deep-dive on Sterling Global Logistics and St. Jude’s Annex,” I said without greeting him. “Specifically, any records connecting Richard Sterling to Sarah Whitman eight years ago.”

Vance was quiet on the line for two seconds. “Sarah? Andrew, she’s been dead for fifteen months. Why are you digging up her past?”

“Because an eight-year-old boy just ran into my arms holding a picture of Sarah holding him as a newborn,” I stated coldly. “And Richard Sterling just showed up at my gate threatening to burn my club down to get him back.”

Vance let out a long, low whistle through the speaker. “Sterling is big time, Andrew. He’s connected to city council, federal maritime shipping, and private juvenile holdings. Give me thirty minutes. I’ll run his off-grid servers.”

“Call me the second you find anything,” I said, hanging up.

We sat in the quiet shelter, the only sound being the soft, rhythmic hum of the DNA analyzer processing the genetic samples on the counter.

Ethan reached out and timidly touched the leather sleeve of my vest. “Are you mad at me, Mr. Whitman?”

I looked down at him, my heart softening instantly. “No, kid. I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at the people who hurt you.”

“Nurse Martha told me Sarah loved me a lot,” Ethan whispered, looking down at his yellow socks. “She said Sarah used to visit me at a small house near the lake when I was little. But then one day Sarah stopped coming. And then two men in dark suits came and took me away to St. Jude’s.”

I felt a cold knot tighten in my stomach. Sarah had been visiting him in secret. All those weekend trips she took up to Door County... she wasn't just painting. She was protecting this boy.

Suddenly, the silver DNA analyzer machine emitted a sharp, double-beep chime.

A green light flashed on the digital display screen.

Doc stepped over to the machine, reading the text printed across the small LCD screen. His hands began to shake visible against the glass vial. He looked up at me, his face completely pale, his jaw slack with absolute shock.

“Andrew...” Doc breathed out, his voice trembling violently.

“What does it say, Doc?” Marcus demanded, stepping forward.

Doc looked down at the screen, then back at me, tears pricking the corners of his eyes.

“The genetic marker match is 99.9%,” Doc whispered. “Andrew... Ethan isn't just a boy Sarah saved.”