It was past midnight. The city lights of Manhattan glittered below, indifferent to the man sitting on the throne of Croft Enterprises.
Malcolm Fotheringham loosened his tie. He felt the familiar, dull ache in his lower back–his kidneys signaling their distress. The stress of the coup, the “Corporate War” he was initiating to dismantle William’s sentimental legacy, was taking a toll faster than he anticipated.
A sudden, violent tickle started in his throat.
Malcolm hunched over the desk, coughing–a wet, racking sound that tore through the silence. He grabbed a white linen handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his mouth.
When the spasm passed, he pulled the cloth away.
Bright red blood stained the white fabric.
Malcolm stared at it, his breath coming in shallow rasps. He crumpled the handkerchief and threw it into the wastebasket. He forced himself to stand straight, adjusting his cuffs.
“Five years,” he whispered to the empty room, repeating the prognosis the European doctors had given him. “I have five years.”.
He didn’t know the “DNA Time Bomb” had accelerated. He didn’t have years. He barely had months.