The Prison-Made Queen novel Chapter 984

"The team in Northern Myanor reported back. The explosion site has been mostly cleared. Aside from scorched rubble and a few unidentifiable bodies, there isn't a single clue."

Donovan stood up and walked over to the map on the wall, tapping heavily on the region where Callahan disappeared.

"Our guys flipped that valley upside down. We paid off the local forces. But Callahan and Leilani just vanished. No survivors, no bodies."

The coffee cup in Libby's hands trembled as she stared blankly ahead.

"How is that possible..."

"Dead or alive, there has to be something! Even if the worst happened, how could two grown adults not leave a single trace behind?"

"That's the most suspicious part," Donovan said, his brow furrowed. "The explosives used were incredibly powerful—way beyond anything we usually see from local insurgents. But more importantly, our people found signs that the site had been deliberately scrubbed..."

He paused, lowering his voice. "We sent three teams. The last team went dark right after reporting they found suspicious tire tracks."

Libby went deathly pale. "Are you saying... someone is intentionally erasing the evidence? And actively stopping us from investigating?"

But Callahan’s business was mostly legitimate operations. Why would he be tangled up with dark factions in Northern Myanor?

"Most likely," Donovan said grimly. "Whoever they are, they’re professionals. This isn't the work of average mercenaries. I suspect..."

He didn't need to finish the sentence. Libby already understood.

Hackett had never been a pleasant man, and his illness had only made his temper more vile and erratic. Even Josiah, his own son, struggled to tolerate him.

Left with no other option, Josiah had to dip into his dwindling funds to hire a nurse.

In just a few days, the small living room was permanently thick with the stench of medicine and harsh disinfectants, creating a suffocating atmosphere.

The hospital stay had stripped Hackett of his remaining dignity. His once-lean frame had withered. He slumped in his wheelchair like a sack of mud, his head lolling unnaturally to one side as saliva dribbled uncontrollably from his mouth. The nurse had just wiped him clean, but his shirt was already wet again.

Once a ruthless titan of the business world, Hackett was now reduced to this. He was filled with a suffocating, venomous rage.

He frequently wished the doctors hadn't resuscitated him. Why couldn't they have just let him die with his dignity intact?