“Die before Friday, Julian. The money moves faster when you stop breathing.”

At 1:58 AM, the door handle to Room 804 turned slowly.

Dr. Harrison—a thin, balding man in his late fifties with nervous, darting eyes—stepped quietly into the dark room. He wore a white lab coat over a rumpled dress shirt, his hands trembling slightly as he pulled a clear glass syringe from his coat pocket.

The syringe was filled with fifty milligrams of clear, colorless fluid: potassium chloride. A lethal dose that would cause instantaneous cardiac arrest within forty-five seconds of entering my IV line.

Dr. Harrison walked silently toward the bed.

Underneath the heavy blanket, Frank's team had arranged a bundle of pillows to mimic the shape of a sleeping human body, with a wig placed on the pillow facing the wall.

Dr. Harrison leaned over the bed, his forehead beaded with cold sweat. "I'm sorry, Julian," he muttered under his breath, his voice trembling with guilt. "I didn't have a choice. Richard promised to clear my debts."

He reached out his trembling left hand, grabbing the clear plastic IV tube connected to the drip stand. He raised the needle, aligning it with the rubber injection port on the line.

"You always have a choice, Doctor," a cold, deep voice echoed from the dark corner near the wardrobe.

Dr. Harrison gasped, jumping backward in pure terror, dropping the syringe onto the carpet.

Click.

The room's overhead lights flashed on, blinding him instantly.

Standing near the window, dressed in a dark tactical suit, was me. Beside me stood Frank Sterling holding a high-definition digital camera, its red recording light flashing brightly.

"J-Julian?!" Dr. Harrison shrieked, his knees buckling beneath him as he hit the edge of the sofa, his face turning an ash-gray color. "You're... you're awake?!"

"You just attempted to commit premeditated murder on high-resolution 4K video, Dr. Harrison," Frank said calmly, keeping the camera focused directly on the doctor's terrified face.

"No! Please!" Harrison whimpered, collapsing onto his knees, tears welling in his eyes. "Richard made me do it! He has my family's financial records! He threatened to ruin me!"

I walked slowly across the room, stopping right in front of the kneeling doctor. I reached down, picked up the glass syringe from the carpet, and held it up to the light.

"Fifty milligrams," I said, my voice dead calm. "A painful, terrifying way to die, isn't it?"

"Please don't kill me!" Harrison sobbed, clutching his hands together in desperate prayer.

"I'm not a murderer, Harrison," I said coldly. "Unlike my fiancée and my cousin, I let the law do my work. But if you want to avoid spending the rest of your life in a maximum-security federal penitentiary, you are going to do exactly what I tell you right now."

Harrison nodded frantically, wiping tears and sweat from his face. "Anything! I'll do anything! Just don't let them kill me!"

"Call Marcus," I commanded. "Tell him the injection is complete. Tell him Julian Vance has suffered cardiac arrest and that you need him inside the room immediately to sign the preliminary death certification."

Harrison swallowed hard, pulling his phone from his lab coat pocket with shaking fingers. He pressed speed dial and placed the phone on speaker mode.

"Marcus?" Harrison stammered into the phone, forcing his voice to sound frantic. "It's done. He's in cardiac arrest. Get in here now before the floor nurses notice the alarm!"

"Good job, Harrison," Marcus's cold voice came over the speaker. "I'm coming in."

Ten seconds later, the door swung open.

Marcus stepped into the room, holding a leather folder, a dark, victorious smile plastered across his face.

"Is he dead—" Marcus started to say.

Before he could finish his sentence, Frank's tactical officer stepped out from behind the door, slamming a heavy steel suppressor against the back of Marcus's neck.

THUD.

Marcus collapsed onto the carpet like a sack of stones, his folder spilling papers across the floor.