Chapter 6 - Bloodlines and Betrayal
The accusation hung in the PACU like an unexploded bomb.
Dr. Vance’s face turned from crimson red to an ashen, mottled gray. “That is an outrageous, slanderous lie! You’re grasping at straws to avoid a life sentence in prison, Reynolds!”
“Is it a lie, Arthur?” Dr. Ellis asked, her expression hardening. She turned to the workstation, her fingers flying across the high-security terminal keyboard. “I signed the initial admission papers for Chloe when she arrived three weeks ago. Dr. Vance insisted that she be placed under the exclusive care of his research wing in the North Pavilion. He told me it was because of ‘VIP privacy protocols.’ But I noticed her lab draws were routed to an external research lab in Bethesda instead of our in-house pathology.”
“Ellis, log off that machine immediately! That is proprietary institutional data!” Vance shouted, lunging toward the desk.
Before he could take two steps, one of the Master-at-Arms stepped in front of him, planting a massive hand squarely against Vance’s chest. The impact stopped Vance dead in his tracks, knocking the wind out of him.
“Stay where you are, sir,” the sailor warned, voice cold as steel.
Dr. Ellis bypassed the local user restrictions using her emergency surgical credentials. “Maya’s right. Look here. Three days ago, Chloe’s liver function enzymes spiked by four hundred percent. A standard lumbar puncture showed an elevated eosinophil count—classic hypersensitivity. But the result was manually overwritten by user credentials belonging to... Dr. Marcus Whitfield.”
Ellis spun around in her rolling chair, staring at Whitfield with utter disgust. “You gave a five-year-old child Neuropex-B? The experimental kinase inhibitor that St. Jude’s board invested fifty million dollars into developing?”
Whitfield was trembling violently, sweat pouring down his forehead, soaking his surgical collar. “It was supposed to work! The animal trials showed complete reversal of viral-induced neural swelling! If we cured the granddaughter of a four-star Admiral using our proprietary drug, our IPO would have cleared two billion dollars! Vance promised me department chair!”
“Shut up, you idiot!” Vance roared, his voice cracking into a panicked screech. “Shut your mouth!”
Admiral Grayson walked slowly toward Whitfield. Every step the tall, broad-shouldered SEAL commander took seemed to shake the floorboards. Whitfield cowered against the wall, sliding down until he was practically crouching on the floor.
“You used my granddaughter as a laboratory rat?” Grayson’s voice was dangerously low, trembling with an ancient, terrifying fury. “Fifty-three doctors examined her. Fifty-three specialists walked through her room and shrugged their shoulders because you buried the toxicology and told them it was an incurable degenerative condition.”
“I... I was trying to adjust the dosage,” Whitfield sobbed, tears cutting tracks through the grease on his cheeks. “When her ICP spiked, I panicked! If we drilled a burr hole and analyzed the ventricular fluid, the state lab would have detected the synthetic peptide metabolites instantly! We had to let her slip away under the diagnosis of brain death! It was supposed to be a natural complication!”
Maya felt an icy rage surge through her veins. In the combat zones of Kandahar, enemies faced each other with rifles and explosives. But here, in the clean, bright halls of a children’s hospital, men in white coats had condemned an innocent five-year-old girl to a suffocating, agonizing death simply to protect their corporate stock options.
“Master-at-Arms,” Admiral Grayson said without looking back.
“Sir!”
“Take Dr. Whitfield into custody under Section 919 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice for attempted murder of a military dependent. Deliver him to the Washington Navy Yard brig. Let civilian authorities try to negotiate for him later.”
“Aye, aye, Admiral.”
The two sailors grabbed Whitfield by the arms, hoisting him off the floor like a sack of laundry, snapping zip-ties around his wrists as he wailed in terror.
Vance stood frozen, realizing the walls were caving in. But the chief administrator was a cornered rat, and cornered rats always have one last vicious bite.
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“You haven’t won, Grayson,” Vance hissed through clenched teeth. “I control the central server banks in the sub-basement. Without the uncorrupted clinical logs, you have nothing but the confession of a hysterical resident. And before the sun rises, those servers will be wiped clean.”
***