Chapter 7 - The Whistleblower’s Ghost
“What is that?” the paramedic asked, stepping back from the pod as if it had caught fire. “That wasn't on the transport manifest.”
“Step away from the patient!” Julian shouted, dropping his umbrella and striding toward the stretcher. “I am the medical director of this flight!”
“Julian, stop!” Richard Sterling barked, his legal instincts firing alarm bells as he saw the paramedic back away. “Don't touch the manifold! If that’s unregistered material, the federal clearance is void!”
“Get out of my way!” Julian snarled, shoving his own lawyer backward onto the wet asphalt.
Julian lunged for the IV pole, his fingers reaching to depress the rapid-flush plunger on the miniature orange pump.
*BANG.*
A single gunshot cracked through the hangar.
The asphalt six inches in front of Julian’s right shoe exploded into a spray of concrete shards.
Julian froze.
Garrison Vance held his Glock with both hands, the barrel smoking in the cold rain. His eyes were dead, focused, and steady as stone.
“Step away from the children, Julian,” Garrison said. “Next one goes through your knee.”
The two private security guards tightened their grips, their guns still pointed at Garrison.
“Drop the weapon!” the lead guard screamed. “Drop it now or we fire!”
“Then fire!” a new voice bellowed through an external PA system.
From the dark perimeter beyond the shattered gate, three blue-and-gold cruisers of the State Police Highway Patrol slid onto the tarmac, sirens blaring, their high-beam spotlights cutting through the rain and blinding the private security guards. Behind them came an unmarked black SUV.
Detective Sarah Lin jumped out of the passenger side of the SUV, holding a bullhorn in one hand and her gold shield in the other.
“All weapons on the ground!” Lin’s amplified voice shook the metal siding of the hangar. “This is the State Police Bureau of Criminal Investigation! We have an emergency bench warrant issued twenty minutes ago by Chief Justice Miller of the State Supreme Court! Holbrook’s order has been vacated on grounds of aggravated fraud, evidence tampering, and capital murder!”
The two security guards looked at each other. They looked at the three state cruisers, the shotguns leveled at them from behind the cruiser doors, and then down at the ground.
They dropped their weapons onto the wet pavement and raised their hands.
Richard Sterling slowly pulled himself up from the ground, his face gray as ash. He looked at Julian Mercer, took three steps backward, and put his hands in his pockets.
“Julian,” Sterling whispered, his voice trembling. “I am withdrawing as your counsel. Effective immediately.”
Julian didn't look at his lawyer. He didn't look at the state police.
He stared at Garrison Vance.
“You don't understand what you’ve destroyed,” Julian whispered, rain dripping from his nose and chin, his dark coat soaked through. “The regeneration protocol worked. The brain tissue in Maya’s frontal lobe was reforming. Another month—just thirty more days—and I would have cured cellular death itself. Claire’s death would have meant something!”
“Claire didn't die for a cure, Julian,” Garrison said, lowering his weapon as the state troopers moved in with zip-ties and handcuffs. “She died because she married an arrogant butcher who thought his own family was an inventory of spare parts.”
Two state troopers slammed Julian Mercer against the side of the transport Suburban, kicking his legs apart.
The click of the steel handcuffs was loud, metallic, and final.
Julian didn't struggle. He turned his face against the wet black paint of the truck, his eyes fixed on Elena.
Elena had let the yellow blanket fall to the ground.
She stood in the rain, her small hands balled into fists at her sides, watching her father being pushed into the back of a state police cruiser. She didn't look away. She didn't blink. She watched the door slam shut, cutting off his face behind the reinforced steel cage.
Garrison holstered his sidearm. He walked across the wet tarmac, his heavy steps slowing as he reached the children.
Maya’s mechanical ventilator hissed softly in the rain.
The female paramedic was already cutting the miniature orange pump from the IV line with a pair of trauma shears, sealing it into an evidence canister handed to her by Sarah Lin.
“She’s stable,” the paramedic looked up at Garrison, her eyes wet with tears. “Her pulse is leveling out. Without that extra dose... she’s going to make it, Officer. Her liver can clear the residue. She’s going to wake up.”
Garrison dropped to his knees on the cold, wet runway.
Elena walked toward him. She didn't say a word. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against Garrison’s damp uniform shirt, right over his brass badge.
Garrison wrapped his arms around the seven-year-old girl, pulling her close, shielding her from the wind, the rain, and the flashing red lights that painted the night sky.
“It’s over, Elena,” Garrison whispered into her wet hair. “You did it. You saved her.”
May you like
Elena’s small hands gripped the fabric of his shirt, and for the first time since she had walked into Station Three four hours ago, she finally began to cry.
***
