Chapter 9 - The Final Prescription
At 7:55 PM, the sky over Lake Michigan was jet-black. A violent thunderstorm slammed against the estate, driving heavy waves against the stone cliffs below.
Inside the suite, the lights were dimmed to a low, warm glow.
Everett lay back in the bed, his eyes closed, his breathing relaxed, perfectly mimicking the silent, motionless posture of a comatose patient. His right hand was tucked beneath the white duvet, resting firmly on the grip of the silenced 9mm pistol.
Willa sat in the armchair beside him, holding her open notebook, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs.
The heavy oak doors unlocked with a sharp click.
Sterling Kane walked into the room, wearing an expensive black trench coat. Behind him walked Dr. Alan Whitfield, carrying his black medical briefcase, looking hurried and nervous.
Petrov and Marcus stood at the doorway, sealing the exit.
"Make it fast, Alan," Sterling said, pacing near the window, checking his watch. "The board of directors is waiting at the downtown hotel. The moment you declare cardiac arrest, I sign the dockland seizure documents."
"Relax, Sterling," Whitfield said smoothly, unzipping his bag. He pulled out a large, heavy syringe filled with ten cubic centimeters of a clear, lethal potassium solution—a dose guaranteed to stop a human heart within sixty seconds. "This is clean. Undetectable in a standard autopsy. It will look like natural organ failure."
Whitfield walked over to the IV pole, tapping the syringe to clear the air bubbles.
Willa stood up from her chair, stepping forward. "Dr. Whitfield."
Whitfield paused, looking at her with cold annoyance. "Step back, girl. Let me do my job."
"Your job?" Willa said, her voice dry, steady, and terrifyingly calm. "Like your job at Mercy General three years ago when you killed Jonathan Vance with a fentanyl overdose and blamed it on me?"
Whitfield froze. His eyes narrowed behind his gold-rimmed glasses as he finally looked at her face. "What... what did you say?"
"My name is Willa Hayes," she said, taking a step toward him, holding up her black leather notebook. "I was the senior surgical nurse you blacklisted to cover your own incompetence. And for the last seven days, I have recorded every single drug, every dose, and every conversation you and Sterling have had in this room."
Sterling stopped pacing, his eyes widening in shock. "What is she talking about?!"
Whitfield’s face went ghastly white. "You... you're that nurse...?"
"The police have the digital copies, Alan," Willa lied smoothly, holding her chin high. "Your career is over. You're going to prison for attempted murder."
Whitfield’s expression twisted into a mask of frantic, desperate rage. "You little bitch!" he screamed, dropping the syringe and reaching into his coat pocket for a heavy scalpel. "I'll kill you!"
He lunged at Willa, his hand raised to strike.
"WHITFIELD."
The voice didn't come from Willa. It didn't come from the hallway.
It came from the bed.
A sound so deep, so cold, so terrifyingly powerful that it seemed to rattle the windowpanes.
Whitfield stopped mid-stride, turning his head in sheer, unadulterated terror.
Everett Kane was sitting upright in the bed.
May you like
His dark eyes were wide open, glowing with absolute, murderous fury. He held the silver 9mm handgun in a steady, two-handed grip, pointed directly between Dr. Whitfield’s eyes.
"Touch my wife," Everett growled softly, "and I'll blow your head off before you hit the floor."
