Chapter 6 - The Custody Siege
The private aviation hangar at Metro Airport smelled of jet fuel, wet concrete, and exhaust.
A sleek, twin-engine Gulfstream G550 sat on the tarmac, its turbine engines whining through their pre-flight startup sequence. The cabin door was lowered, revealing a brightly lit medical interior equipped with life-support monitors and two transport stretchers.
At the base of the stairs, three black Suburbans formed an armored perimeter.
Julian Mercer stood under an umbrella held by Richard Sterling, his lawyer. Julian wore a fresh black overcoat, his expression calm, serene, and entirely in command.
Two private security guards in tactical windbreakers escorted a small figure across the wet asphalt.
Elena Mercer was wrapped in an oversized yellow blanket. Her hands were tucked inside the folds, her head down against the biting wind. Beside her, two paramedics wheeled a specialized mobile ICU pod containing Maya. Maya was intubated now, a mechanical ventilator hissing rhythmically beside her head, her face pale as parchment beneath the clear plastic oxygen mask.
“Dr. Mercer,” the flight paramedic called out, stepping down the plane’s stairs. “The receiving facility in Geneva is ready. We have blood products pre-matched for Maya on board.”
“Excellent,” Julian replied smoothly. “Load Maya first. Secure the infusion line. Ensure the secondary port is flushed with heparin.”
Julian looked down at Elena.
He reached out, his leather-gloved hand resting lightly on the top of her head.
“You’ve caused a great deal of trouble, Elena,” Julian said, his voice soft, almost melodic, completely devoid of anger. “Running to a police station. Hiding medical equipment. You frightened your sister very badly.”
Elena didn't look up. Her shoulders shook beneath the yellow blanket.
“Look at me, Elena,” Julian said.
The child didn't move.
Julian’s hand moved down to her chin, his fingers tightening just enough to force her face upward into the rain.
“When we land in Zurich,” Julian murmured, looking into her tear-streaked face, “we will begin your preparation. Maya was strong, but you have always been the resilient one. Your mother would be very proud of the contribution you are about to make.”
Elena looked into his eyes—the cold, pale blue eyes of the man who had tucked her into bed every night of her life.
“I hate you,” she whispered.
Julian smiled faintly, releasing her chin. “Hate is an adrenaline-mediated response, my dear. It will keep your heart rate up. That’s very useful for Phase Two.”
A siren screamed in the distance.
Julian didn't flinch. He turned his head toward the tarmac gate.
A single, battered white police cruiser from Station Three crashed through the airport’s perimeter barrier, sending yellow warning signs and chain-link fencing spinning across the wet runway.
The cruiser didn't slow down. It fishtailed across the slick asphalt, its tires smoking as it slid into a ninety-degree halt fifty feet from the front bumper of Julian’s Suburban.
The driver’s door kicked open.
Garrison Vance stepped out. He wasn't wearing his tactical vest. He wasn't carrying a rifle. He wore his standard blue uniform shirt, drenched in rain, his duty belt heavy around his waist.
In his left hand, he held Claire Mercer’s leather-bound journal.
Richard Sterling immediately stepped forward, pulling a sheaf of legal papers from his coat. “Officer Vance! You are violating an active federal court order! If you take one more step, my security team is authorized to use lethal force to defend this aircraft!”
The two private security guards immediately unholstered their sidearms, raising them to center-mass on Garrison’s chest.
“Garrison!” Julian called out over the roar of the jet engines, his voice carrying an amused, pitying warmth. “You are a remarkably predictable man. A small-town patrolman with a savior complex. Did you really think you could stop this? Look around you. The law is on this plane. The science is on this plane. The future is on this plane.”
Garrison stopped twenty feet away. He ignored the two handguns pointed at his heart.
He held up the journal.
“Claire Mercer didn't die of ALS, Julian,” Garrison said. His voice was not loud, but it cut through the whine of the turbines like a blade. “She died of acute neuro-paralysis caused by seventy-five daily doses of Mercer-9. You started her on three milligrams in April of last year. By June, she couldn't move her legs. By August, she was begging you to let her die in a hospice.”
Julian’s smile did not waver, but his fingers twitched inside his pockets.
“A grieving man’s private clinical notes are protected by physician-patient privilege, Vance,” Julian said. “Any judge in the country will suppress that book within ten minutes.”
“Maybe,” Garrison said. “In court. Three months from now.”
Garrison looked past Julian, straight at the two paramedics standing beside Maya’s mobile ICU pod.
“Paramedics!” Garrison yelled. “Open Maya’s IV bag! Look at the infusion collar! What color is the secondary port?”
The lead paramedic, a young woman with a state registration patch on her shoulder, hesitated. She looked at Julian, then looked down at the plastic IV manifold hooked to Maya’s arm.
“Don't touch that equipment,” Julian ordered, his tone suddenly dropping all pretense of gentleness. “I am the attending physician.”
“Look at the port!” Garrison roared. “There’s a reservoir bulb behind the drip chamber! He’s running a fatal dose of the carrier lipid right now to purge the remaining evidence from her bloodstream before the plane clears international waters!”
The female paramedic looked down. Her eyes widened.
May you like
Tucked behind the primary saline bag was a miniature mechanical infusion pump, pulsing with an opaque, bright orange liquid.
***
