Chapter 3 - The Call from the Cold
Richard let out a harsh, barking laugh. "Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. Two losers making speeches in the rain. Get lost, both of you, before I call the cops!"
The old man didn't move to leave. Instead, his posture subtly shifted. The hunched, frail shoulders straightened. The subtle tremor in his hands vanished completely. He reached deep into the inner pocket of his filthy, threadbare coat.
Richard watched him with disgust. "What are you pulling out, old man? Spare buttons? A half-smoked cigarette? Get off the bench!"
The old man pulled his hand out. Held firmly in his weathered, dirt-streaked fingers was not a piece of trash, but a brand-new, ultra-customized dark titanium smartphone—a device worth more than Richard’s monthly salary, featuring an encrypted, bezel-less interface that flickered to life at the touch of his thumbprint.
Richard blinked, his sneer freezing mid-frame. Clara’s breath caught in her throat.
The old man didn't look like a beggar anymore. The bruise on his right cheekbone suddenly seemed less like the result of a street fight and more like the aftermath of something far more sinister. His grey eyes, cold and sharp as polished steel, swept up to meet Richard’s gaze. The sheer, overwhelming aura of authority radiating from him was so intense that Richard involuntarily took a half-step back, his leather shoe slipping slightly in a puddle.
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The old man raised the phone to his ear. He didn't dial; the line connected instantly.
"This is Walter Martin," the old man spoke into the receiver. His voice was no longer gravelly or weak. It was a deep, resonant baritone that commanded absolute, unquestioning obedience. "Get my attorney here. And bring the will."
