Chapter 8 - THE BLACK MARKET TRAIL
The squad car flew over the river bridge, its tires hydroplaning across deep puddles, the speedometer needle touching ninety miles per hour. Inside the car, Graham’s phone rang incessantly. He grabbed Reynolds’ radio console, patching through to the PICU.
"PICU, this is Dr. Ashford! Put me through to Room 402!"
"Graham! It's Evelyn!" His mother’s voice came through the speaker, breathless, sobbing, and muffled by the sound of scuffling. "He’s in here! Dr. Vance is in the room! He locked the door from the inside! He has a syringe!"
"Mom! Break the glass! Don't let him touch her IV line!"
"He pushed me down, Graham! The nurses are trying to use the master key override, but the electronic lock has been disabled from the terminal!"
Graham slammed his fist into the dashboard, fracturing the plastic air vent. "Reynolds, drive faster!"
"I'm flooring it!" Reynolds swerved through the hospital gates, sending metal security barricades clattering across the asphalt, and slammed the cruiser directly onto the concrete sidewalk flanking the pediatric emergency wing.
Graham didn't wait for the vehicle to stop completely. He kicked his door open at fifteen miles per hour, hitting the wet pavement in a hard roll, scrambling back to his feet instantly. He charged through the sliding glass trauma doors like an animal unleashed.
Security guards moved to intercept him, but Reynolds came tearing in behind him, flashing his gold badge and service weapon. "Police! Stand down! Move aside!"
Graham bolted up the emergency stairwell, taking four concrete steps at a time, his lungs screaming for oxygen, his heart pounding a deafening war drum in his ears. Third floor. Fourth floor.
He kicked open the heavy fire doors of the Pediatric ICU.
The entire unit was in chaos. Three nurses and a respiratory therapist were hammering against the reinforced safety glass of Room 402. Inside, the lights were dimmed.
Through the transparent pane, Graham saw Marcus Vance.
Vance stood over Lily’s bed, his face illuminated only by the sickly green glow of the cardiac monitor. In his gloved right hand, he held a large, clear syringe filled with a milky white solution—potassium chloride. A lethal bolus disguised as cardiac arrest from progressive poisoning.
Lily lay beneath him, motionless, the ventilator hiss the only sound marking her fragile existence.
"Marcus!" Graham roared, throwing his entire body against the heavy locked door. The safety latch rattled, but held firm.
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Vance looked up slowly. His eyes behind his designer spectacles were completely devoid of humanity, cold, calculating, and resigned. He raised the syringe toward the central venous line port in Lily’s neck.
"It’s too late, Graham," Vance’s voice came faintly through the intercom speaker. "The company cannot survive an FDA inspection. If she lives, the compound will be synthesized and identified in her tissues. If she passes, it’s just another tragic domestic accident by an unstable father. You shouldn't have blown the whistle."
