Chapter 3 - The Shadow of Vermont
The black SUV tore through the heavy mountain fog along Highway 7, its high beams cutting through the midnight darkness of the Vermont wilderness.
Inside the back seat, Stallone sat in silence, staring at the digital tablet held by his lead investigator, Frank Miller—a former federal marshal with thirty years of cold-case experience. Beside them, young Leo was fast asleep, wrapped in a heavy wool jacket, resting his head against Marco’s knee.
"We ran the serial numbers on the Swiss intake record you pulled from the frame, Sylvester," Miller said, his gray hair illuminated by the light of the screen. "It’s authentic. The clinic was closed down nine years ago following an international investigation into illegal adoptions and high-society human trafficking."
"Who ran it?" Stallone asked, his voice low and dangerous.
"A woman named Dr. Aris Thorne," Miller revealed, pulling up a mugshot of a cold, sharp-featured woman in her late fifties. "And guess who sat on the primary board of director trustees for that clinic between 2015 and 2018? Your beloved stepmother, Victoria Vance."
Stallone’s hands clenched into massive fists. "She didn't just adopt the second boy. She orchestrated the delivery."
"It’s worse than that," Miller continued, swiping to a secondary financial trail. "Your late wife, Sarah, didn't die of natural heart failure after childbirth. According to these encrypted medical logs retrieved from the Swiss server backup, Sarah gave birth to healthy twin boys—Leo and a second child registered as 'Subject B.' Three hours after the delivery, Victoria administered a massive dose of synthetic paralysis toxin to Sarah’s IV line, mimicking sudden heart failure."
The temperature in the vehicle seemed to drop ten degrees.
Marco, sitting in the front passenger seat, turned his head slowly, his jaw hanging open in utter disbelief. "My God..."
Stallone didn't speak. He stared out the tinted window at the dark pine trees rushing past. The grief over his late wife Sarah—a grief he had carried for eight long years—transformed instantly into a white-hot, razor-sharp focus.
Victoria hadn't just stolen a child. She had murdered his wife in cold blood to clear her path into his life, his estate, and his fortune.
"Why keep one child and give the other away?" Stallone asked, his voice deathly quiet.
"Because of your grandfather’s trust," Miller explained, displaying a scanned copy of the Stallone family estate trust established fifty years ago. "The trust mandates that if you produce a single male heir, ninety percent of the primary real estate and voting rights in Stallone Holdings pass to the boy upon his tenth birthday, with Victoria acting as sole managing trustee until he turns twenty-one."
Miller tapped the screen, pointing to a specific clause written in red ink.
"But if you produce multiple male heirs," Miller read, "the trust is immediately frozen and placed under federal escrow until an independent court determines equal division. Victoria couldn't afford a frozen trust. She needed a single, isolated heir—a little boy she could isolate, control, and eventually eliminate when the money was transferred to her personal accounts."
"And where is 'Subject B'?" Stallone demanded, turning his gaze back to Miller.
"We traced Victoria’s private air-charter logs from four hours ago," Miller said, zooming in on a satellite map showing a remote, heavily fortified compound nestled deep in the Green Mountains near St. Albans, Vermont. "It’s a private residential facility registered under a shell corporation named Sanctum Care. It’s officially listed as a specialized school for children with rare genetic conditions. But according to local intelligence, it’s a private holding pen for high-value targets."
"She took the second boy there," Stallone stated.
"She took him there to eliminate the evidence," Miller corrected grimly. "Now that you found the document in the frame, Victoria knows her legal cover is blown. If federal agents raid that facility tomorrow morning, they find a boy whose DNA matches yours 100%. She can't let that child be found alive."
Stallone leaned forward, touching Marco on the shoulder. "How far are we from the gate?"
"Ten miles, boss," Marco answered, checking the submachine gun tucked inside his tactical vest. "We have four local tactical units waiting at the rally point two miles south."
"No police," Stallone ordered firmly. "Local cops move too slow. Victoria has judges and sheriffs on her payroll in this county. If they see blue lights coming up that mountain, she’ll execute the child before we reach the front door."
Miller looked alarmed. "Sylvester, that compound is guarded by private military contractors from Eastern Europe. It’s a fortress!"
Stallone reached under his seat, pulling out a heavy, black leather weapon bag. He unzipped it, revealing a custom tactical shotgun and two heavy handguns.
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He looked at Miller with eyes that had faced every storm life could throw at a man.
"I don't care if it's a fortress," Stallone said, his iconic rasp cold enough to freeze blood. "They have my son."
