Page 57 of The Beast's Broken Angel
The dismissal was subtle but unmistakable, and Harrison's reaction confirmed my growing suspicions. Frustration flickered across his features before disappearing behind his professional mask, the brief lapse revealing depths of anger and resentment I'd never seen before.
Twenty years of careful manipulation, and his control was finally slipping. The puppet master was discovering that his strings had been cut, leaving him exposed and vulnerable forthe first time in decades.
Soon, very fucking soon, Harrison would learn exactly what happened to those who betrayed the Calloway family. And Noah would be there to witness every moment of his reckoning.
14
BEAUTIFUL VENGEANCE
ADRIAN
The next evening, Dr. Jonathan Hayes looked like a man trying to keep his bollocks attached when Marcus dragged him through Ravenswood's front door. The blindfold came off with a rough yank, and I watched him blink against the chandelier light like some posh vampire caught in sunbeams. His composure was decent, I'd give him that much. Most blokes would be pissing themselves by now.
“Dr. Hayes.” I kept my voice smooth as aged whisky, letting him catalogue the armed men positioned around my entrance hall like decorative gargoyles. “Thank you for accepting my invitation.”
The fucker had the nerve to straighten his expensive suit jacket, playing at dignity while blood crusted under his fingernails from where he'd fought Marcus's extraction team. My eyes tracked every detail with predatory focus. The Omega Seamaster on his wrist cost more than an NHS surgeon earned in six months. The calluses on his trigger finger had fuck all to do with holding scalpels. His shoulders carried muscle built through combat training, not medical school stress.
“You've taken Noah.” It wasn't a question, which scored him points for awareness. Hayes met my gaze without flinching, admirable given the circumstances. “Whatever you believe he's done, you're mistaken. He's just a nurse with unfortunate taste in employment opportunities.”
I smiled at that, the expression cold enough to frost glass. “Your concern is touching, Doctor. Let's discuss your relationship privately, shall we?”
The slight hesitation before he followed me toward my study told me everything I needed to know. The way his eyes swept exit routes, assessed threats, calculated odds of survival. Military training wrapped in civilian clothing, intelligence operative masquerading as a healer.
My study felt smaller with Hayes in it, his presence radiating controlled menace despite being outnumbered and outgunned. I settled behind my desk like a judge preparing to pass sentence, spreading photographs across the mahogany surface with deliberate care.
“Your cover is excellent, Doctor.” I turned the first image to face him. Hayes with known MI5 operatives outside a Vauxhall safe house. “General medicine provides perfect explanation for irregular hours. Convenient access to trauma victims without raising suspicion.”
His face revealed nothing, but the tension in his jaw spoke volumes. Professional training warring with human instinct, the same struggle I'd seen in countless interrogations over the years.
“Recognise these gentlemen?” I continued, sliding another photograph forward. Hayes meeting with government contacts in a Camden pub, heads bent close over pints that never got drunk. “Section Chief Matthews from Intelligence. Deputy Director Hawkins from Counter-Intelligence. Fascinating dinner companions for a trauma surgeon.”
“I don't know what game you're playing, Calloway,” Hayes said finally, voice steady despite the sweat beading his upper lip. “But dragging innocent civilians into your paranoid fantasies won't end well for anyone.”
I laughed at that, the sound echoing off book-lined walls like a gunshot. “Innocent? You identified Noah as a potential asset, researched his vulnerabilities, then positioned yourself to exploit his situation once you recruited him. Textbook psychological manipulation.”
The accusation hit home. I caught the micro-expression that flickered across his features before professional control reasserted itself. Guilt mixed with calculation, a man realising his careful operation was unravelling thread by bloody thread.
“Noah knows nothing,” Hayes said, trying to regain narrative control. His eyes shifted to Noah standing in the corner. “Noah, you have to understand?—”
“Don't speak to him,” I cut him off sharply.
But Hayes persisted, desperation making him stupid. “Noah, whatever they've told you about me?—”
I stood up, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Look at him again and I'll remove your eyes.”
Hayes finally got the message, turning back to me with visible effort. Smart man.
“Your intelligence gathering is secondary to your real target,” I continued, circling the desk like a shark scenting blood. “You weren't just monitoring the Calloway organisation. You were investigating someone specific. Someone with access to our financial infrastructure.”
Hayes' stillness was answer enough. The doctor understood he was fucked seven ways from Sunday, but he was professional enough to maintain operational security even facing torture and probable death.
Time to remedy that situation.
The descentto Ravenswood's basement was a journey into hell itself, each step echoing off stone walls that had witnessed decades of violence.
Hayes proved more resilient than most once we'd secured him in the restraints. I could feel Noah's horror radiating from the corner where he stood watching, his medical training recognising the anatomical expertise I was applying to the doctor's nervous system. Hayes hung suspended from chains bolted to the ceiling, feet barely touching the floor, wrists already raw from the metal.
“Your operation targeted my organisation specifically,” I stated conversationally, applying calculated pressure with my thumb to the nerve cluster below Hayes' left ear. His scream bounced off soundproofed walls before cutting to a strangled gasp. “The Turner brothers were merely convenient instruments. Expendable.”
