Chapter 7 - The Midnight Visitor
The door rattled in its frame with a dull, menacing thud.
Willa was already back in her armchair, her head slumped sideways against the gray wool blanket, her breathing steady and deep. On the bedside table, the heart monitor maintained its rhythmic, robotic beep.
Inside the bed, Everett lay flat on his back, his eyes closed, his breathing artificially slowed to match the mechanical pace of the ventilator.
Click.
A master skeleton key turned in the lock. The heavy brass bolt slid back with a sharp metallic snap.
The door swung open, spilling a narrow slice of yellow hallway light across the parquet floor.
Dr. Alan Whitfield stepped into the room. He wasn't wearing his white lab coat this time; he wore a dark cashmere overcoat, his silver-rimmed glasses catching the dim glow of the monitors. In his right hand, he carried a small, silver metal case.
He didn't look at Willa. He walked straight to the side of the bed, his soft-soled shoes making no sound.
For a long moment, Whitfield stood there, looking down at Everett with an expression of cold, professional amusement.
“Still breathing, Mr. Kane?” Whitfield murmured softly, setting the metal case down on the bedside table. “You really are remarkably stubborn. Most men would have let go six months ago. But then again, empires require stubborn foundations.”
He popped the latches of the silver case. Inside, resting in custom-cut foam, was a syringe pre-loaded with a dark, amber-tinted fluid that gleamed sickly under the fluorescent light.
“Tonight, we finish this,” Whitfield continued, pulling off his leather gloves. “Sterling has the board meeting tomorrow morning. Once the proxy transfer is signed by your cousin, your little homeless bride will be found dead of an accidental prescription overdose in her car, and you will finally achieve permanent, peaceful slumber.”
He reached for the side-port of the intravenous line.
His fingers were inches away from the injection site when a hand shot out from beneath the hospital blanket like a striking viper.
An iron grip clamped around Whitfield’s wrist, squeezing so hard the bone seemed ready to snap.
Whitfield let out a sharp gasp of terror, dropping the syringe. It clattered against the floor, the glass shattering into a thousand glittering pieces.
Whitfield jerked his head up, his eyes bulging behind his silver-rimmed glasses.
He was staring directly into the cold, gray, wide-open eyes of Everett Kane.
“You...” Whitfield choked out, his face draining of all color, turning the shade of spoiled milk. “You’re... you’re supposed to be—'”
“Paralyzed?” Everett finished for him, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sounded like thunder rolling across an iron bridge. He pulled himself up off the pillows, throwing off the blanket with one fluid motion.
Before Whitfield could scramble backward toward the door, Everett’s left hand caught him by the lapels of his cashmere coat, hoisting the doctor off his feet with terrifying strength and slamming him hard against the bolted steel medicine cabinet.
The metal crash echoed through the room like a gunshot.
“You made a mistake, Alan,” Everett whispered, his face inches from the terrified physician’s nose. “You forgot to check the bypass valve on the saline line.”
Whitfield’s legs kicked uselessly against the floor, his breath coming in ragged, panicky gasps. “Mr. Kane... please... I was just following orders—Sterling made me—'”
“Sterling’s turn comes next,” Everett said coldly.
He didn't strike him. With a flick of his wrist, Everett threw Whitfield across the room, sending the doctor crashing into the mahogany desk. Whitfield scrambled to his feet, bleeding from a cut lip, and bolted toward the open door, vanishing down the dark hallway like a frightened rat.
Everett didn't chase him. He stood tall beside the bed, breathing heavily, his broad shoulders squared.
Willa stood up from the armchair, her hands steady, holding out his tailored suit jacket that she had kept hidden in the closet.
“He’ll go straight to Sterling,” Willa said, her voice completely calm.
May you like
Everett slid his arms into the jacket, adjusting the cuffs with cold precision. He looked at Willa, a slow, dangerous smile finally breaking across his face.
“Good,” Everett said. “Let them run to the same hole. It saves us the trouble of hunting them down one by one.”
