Chapter 8 - The Arrival and the Fall of Uncle Richard
The emergency trauma bay at St. Jude’s Women’s Pavilion was an arena of controlled chaos.
The sirens of three police escorts had cleared the path as the battered Suburban limped to the ambulance bay on three tires and a bare rim. Ryan had carried Emily through the automatic doors himself, refusing to let the paramedics take her from his arms until they laid her directly on the trauma gurney.
Dr. Catherine Morrison was already waiting, her surgical scrubs donned, her face pale as she took in Emily’s condition.
“Placental detachment!” the ultrasound technician shouted within thirty seconds of the probe touching Emily’s abdomen. “Fetal heart rate is decelerating—down to ninety! She’s hemorrhaging into the uterine cavity!”
“We’re doing an emergency crash C-section right now!” Dr. Morrison barked, signaling the orderlies. “Prep OR 3! Get four units of O-negative on standby! Ryan, you have to stay outside!”
“No! I’m going with her!” Ryan shouted, his face smeared with blood from a cut on his hairline.
“Ryan, you will contaminate the surgical field and kill your wife!” Dr. Morrison screamed, pushing him back with unexpected strength. “Let me save them! Sit down and let me do my job!”
The double doors of the operating room slammed shut. The red surgical light above the lintel illuminated with a menacing, buzzing glow.
Ryan collapsed against the wall of the waiting room, sliding down the tiled surface until he was sitting on the floor, his head in his bloody hands.
His clothes were torn. Emily’s blood was on his hands, on his chest, on his neck. For the first time in his life, Ryan Alexander Vance felt completely, utterly powerless. He couldn't buy his way out of this. He couldn't use legal leverage. He couldn't threaten it into submission.
He could only sit in the cold fluorescent light and pray that the universe would not take the two people who gave his life meaning.
Behind him, heavy footsteps approached rapidly.
Marcus Sterling, his suit soaked through with rain, strode into the hallway, followed by two armed Aegis security officers and Captain Davis of the State Police Highway Patrol.
“Ryan,” Marcus said, his voice trembling slightly. “How is she?”
“They’re operating,” Ryan choked out, not lifting his head. “The baby... the baby was dying, Marcus. There was so much blood.”
Captain Davis stepped forward, his expression grim. “Mr. Vance. We have the driver of the flatbed in custody. Aegis security pulled him out of the cab before he could flee the scene.”
Ryan’s head snapped up.
The grief and terror in his bloodshot eyes evaporated, replaced by an ancient, predatory darkness that made even the seasoned police captain hesitate.
“Who was it?” Ryan whispered.
“His name is Victor Cole,” Captain Davis said, holding up an evidence bag containing a burner phone. “He’s a contract operative. We ran the phone through the regional intelligence database ten minutes ago. There were fourteen encrypted calls made to this device over the last seventy-two hours.”
Davis paused, looking at Marcus, then back to Ryan.
“Every single call originated from the private residence of Richard Vance.”
Ryan stood up slowly.
He didn't yell. He didn't punch the wall. The fury inside him was so massive, so absolute, that it became a terrifying, absolute calm.
“Where is Richard right now?” Ryan asked.
“He’s at the private aviation terminal at Westchester County Airport,” Marcus answered, his voice icy. “He filed a flight plan for Zurich thirty minutes ago. His private jet is taxiing onto the tarmac as we speak.”
Ryan looked toward the double doors of OR 3.
Just as he turned, the red surgical light flickered and shut off.
The doors swung open. Dr. Catherine Morrison stepped out into the hallway. Her surgical mask was pulled down, hanging loose around her neck. Her gown was covered in blood, but her eyes—tired, exhausted, and rimmed with sweat—held something miraculous.
From the room behind her came a thin, raspy, but unmistakably furious sound.
*Waaaaah! Waaaaaaah!*
The cry of a newborn baby girl.
Ryan’s breath hitched in his throat. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe.
“Five pounds, four ounces,” Dr. Morrison said, a tear breaking through her exhausted smile. “She was born six weeks early, Ryan, and she had to be resuscitated for forty-five seconds... but her lungs are working. She’s breathing on her own.”
“And Emily?” Ryan gasped, his voice breaking into a sob. “Catherine... Emily?”
“She lost a lot of blood,” Dr. Morrison said softly, stepping forward to grip Ryan’s trembling arms. “We had to perform an emergency transfusion. But she’s stable, Ryan. She’s awake. And she’s asking for you.”
Ryan let out a ragged, shattering sob, covering his face with his hands as the weight of the last three weeks finally broke through his defenses. He wept openly in the hospital corridor, heedless of the police officers, the doctors, and the security guards around him.
After a long minute, Ryan wiped his eyes, his chest heaving. He looked at Captain Davis.
“Captain,” Ryan said, his voice dropping into iron. “Richard’s jet is at Westchester?”
“Yes, sir.”
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“Don't let him leave the country,” Ryan said. “I want to be there when you put the cuffs on him.”
***