Page 63 of Unnatural (Men and Monsters #2)

Mark’s foot eased off the accelerator as he rounded the corner, taking the exit as the GPS instructed. Sam had left, not just for one of his walks, the ones Jak called mini pilgrimages, but for good. At least that was what Autumn’s impression had been as she’d tearfully explained what he’d said.

They’d tried their best to ease Sam into the knowledge, the magnitude, of what had been done to him.

But even Mark hadn’t realized the extent of the evil.

It was no wonder Sam was reeling. And he’d be looking for any solid footing that would help him hold on, any possibility that his entire life hadn’t been a terrible, ghastly lie.

The other two groups Mark had found had been brainwashed as well, but they hadn’t been mutilated and pieced back together.

Sam had been tortured, experimented on, horribly abused, and brainwashed to become part of a mindless cult.

Men and women for hire who would do anything, kill anyone, follow any order no matter how violent or immoral.

Mark thought he knew where Sam would look for any possible stability first. Because he would hold on to a final sliver of hope.

And that final sliver was Dr. Heathrow. The man Sam had made excuses for, the man Mark had seen him struggle to label a villain.

His father in a sense, and Mark’s gut churned to think of it.

He pulled into the driveway of the grand, white brick colonial.

He’d been pulling information on the man since he’d first heard his name from Salma Ibrahim.

By anyone’s measure, he was a vastly wealthy man.

Blood money. Mark would bet his life on it.

There was no way a doctor could have believed the people he’d operated on had needed the surgeries Autumn had described.

Sam had been told his bones were brittle, his organs diseased.

But they hadn’t been. They’d cut into his healthy body and done whatever they’d wanted in the name of who knew what.

An unthinkable horror. How many hadn’t made it?

How many had died on the operating table or soon thereafter?

How many hadn’t had Sam’s incredible strength?

Mark jogged up the steps, slowing when he saw that the door was open, a centimeter of gleaming marble showing but nothing more.

His internal alarm bells rang. He stepped to the side and then pressed the bell, leaning forward only slightly as he listened.

A muffled crash. Mark removed the firearm holstered under his coat and used his foot to push the door open.

Slowly, he went inside. “Agent Mark Gallagher,” he called. “Hello?”

There was broken glass on the marble foyer floor at the open doorway to Mark’s right, and he hurried toward it, his weapon preceding him. The room was destroyed. His eyes flew from one corner to the other. Jesus. Had Sam done this?

The sound of something falling to his right had him whirling around, his gun aimed at…a cat . He let out a harsh breath, lowering his weapon as the feline scampered away.

Mark left the room and then did a quick search of both floors as he announced his presence.

It appeared no one was home. In the master bedroom, Mark noted the closet door was open, a few shirts and hangers littering the floor, and on a shelf of suitcases, one spot was empty.

Obviously, someone had packed in a hurry, not even bothering to fully shut the front door.

Or using a different exit, the garage perhaps.

He descended the curved staircase and returned to the study with the broken furniture.

Someone had thrown the pieces against the walls, which showed large dents and torn wallpaper.

Pictures that had once hung there were now in shards on the floor.

Perhaps the doctor himself had done this, but…

Mark was almost certain it’d been Sam. The dents on the walls were deep.

What did he say to you, Sam?

Whatever it was, it’d broken him.

Whatever it was had brought out an explosion of violence. But Mark saw no blood, no evidence that a human had been hurt. The furniture and artwork had been the victims here.

In the corner, a mahogany file cabinet lay on its side, the top drawer smashed open, a pile of folders spilled out onto the floor. The doctor’s files. He knelt and picked up the open folder at the top of the stack. It didn’t list a name, but he recognized the picture. Sam.

Oh Jesus.

He opened it and flipped through, reading quickly the extensive list of surgeries and treatments, a lump filling his throat at the sheer number of them. Sam’s first operation had been when he was nine months old. It was a miracle he was still alive.

He glanced at the stack of files he’d set next to himself. Many of them featured red stickers on the front that said simply Deceased .

All these victims had been taken from the system under the guise that they were ADHM babies.

They weren’t. From what he could tell, not one of them had actually tested positive for the disease.

One of the files had fallen open, and the photo of a toddler met his eyes, a black-haired girl whose skin was mottled and blistered by whatever was done to her.

Vomit threatened. Mark steeled his spine.

Take in the information. React to it later.

He couldn’t take these files with him. He’d need to go to a judge immediately and get a warrant if they were going to be used as evidence.

But he had to know what had been done to Sam, the others, to understand fully what he was dealing with here.

The pure, undiluted evil. And he wanted to give Sam his history when he was ready.

The man had been tortured. He deserved that much.

Mark used his cell phone to take photos of each page, flipping quickly.

He slowed for a moment when he saw the report done on the experiment to his hair.

An attempt to permanently lighten his coloring had been deemed a failure for the unusual color they’d achieved, more silver than blond.

Mark could only guess at the reason for researching the ability to change the appearance of foster babies at birth…

Dear Jesus, it was too sick and evil to comprehend.

He felt empty. So empty. It reminded him of the cold, ruthless Nazi doctor Josef Mengele, who never received punishment for his heinous acts of brutality.

Only he would have been proud of Heathrow’s work and even greatly outdone by these villains.

Mark’s hands rarely shook, but they did now as he returned the files to the drawer, leaving the file cabinet where it lay, another piece of broken furniture in a room full of destruction.

As he moved toward the door, his foot hit the edge of an open laptop obscured under a pile of loose papers.

Mark picked it up and pressed the keypad.

The home screen lit up, displaying an open email message.

He began to scroll down to what looked like the top of a photo, but right before his eyes, the message blinked out, disappearing, just before the entire screen appeared to digitally melt.

Had someone just remotely scrubbed the computer?

Holy hell. Mark set the piece of equipment on the desk.

Maybe computer techs would find something on it later, but he had a feeling it had been rendered useless.