It had been hours since the jet took off from Husla. Ryan lay on the bed at the far side, the rise and fall of his chest steady but still a little weak. Tubes and wires still clung to him, evidence of the surgery he had survived.
Emily sat a few seats away with two members of the medical team, checking the monitor that traveled with them. Mack, Ryan's man, sat a closest to Ryan, always watchful as though waiting for orders.
Ryan's eyes were open, staring at nothing in particular. His mind was heavy. The state of the company and the house that Abigail set ablaze were the last things on his mind.
His dominating thought was of Callan. The son he had never held. His son who now might hate him because of all he thought he knew about him. The thought made his heart ache in a way no scalpel ever could.
How could he fix it? Ryan asked himself again and again. What could he do so that Callan would be willing to see him and acknowledge him as his father?
