Chapter 9 - The Wolf Unmasked
The twin-engine luxury helicopter cut through the heavy midnight storm clouds, speeding north toward the secluded Adirondack mountains where the Kincaid Neurological Institute was nestled among dense pine forests.
Inside the cabin, the atmosphere was deadly quiet. Adrian sat across from Marcus and five of our most trusted private security operators, reviewing structural schematics on an illuminated holotable.
"The institute masquerades as an elite medical retreat," Marcus explained, pointing to the underground floor plan. "In reality, the lower sub-basements house private biotechnology servers and an unlisted helipad. Dr. Robert Kincaid was the chief flight physician who certified your pilot’s medical records before your crash, Adrian."
"And he certified that Captain Miller had an unblemished cardiac history," Adrian said, his fists clenched tight. "When in fact, Miller was suffering from late-stage coronary disease, bribed with five million dollars in offshore accounts to crash the plane upon takeoff."
"And Kincaid covered it up," I added, clutching my tablet as I cross-referenced the medical bank transfers I had uncovered during our flight. "He took the fall money and used it to fund his rogue neurological clinical trials. He thought you would remain in a vegetative state forever, Adrian. When you started showing signs of recovery under my care, he knew his secret was in jeopardy."
Adrian looked at me, his eyes softening despite the grim mission ahead. He reached across the small aisle and placed his warm palm over mine. "We get your father out first. That is our primary objective."
"Don't compromise your safety for him, Adrian," I said, my voice thick with emotion.
"Your father raised a daughter who taught me how to live again," Adrian replied without hesitation. "There is nothing in this world I wouldn't compromise to keep him safe for you."
Ten minutes later, the helicopter descended through the foggy tree line, hovering five feet above the institute’s private courtyard. Marcus and his team deployed instantaneously, deploying flash-bangs and breaching the perimeter doors before the institute’s private security could mount a defense.
Adrian and I followed close behind, escorted by two heavily armed guards.
Inside the clinical corridors, alarms screamed as medical staff fled in panic. We swept directly toward the private intensive care wing. Marcus kicked open the heavy double doors of Suite 402.
There, sitting quietly in a high-tech motorized chair, was my father, hooked up to an oxygen monitor, reading a book.
"Dad!" I cried out, rushing across the room and throwing my arms around his frail shoulders.
"Elena?" he gasped, his tired eyes wide with confusion. "What... what is happening here?"
"We're getting you out of here, Mr. Vance," Adrian said, stepping into the room with an authoritative, reassuring smile. "Your treatment continues tonight, but in a home of my choosing."
Before my father could ask another question, the glass wall overlooking the internal courtyard shattered with an ear-splitting crack.
Standing on the opposite mezzanine, surrounded by four armed private mercenaries, stood Dr. Robert Kincaid himself. Gone was his gentle bedside manner; his face was twisted with cold, bitter hatred.
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"You really are a cockroach, Adrian Vale!" Kincaid shouted through the echoing courtyard. "You should have burned on that runway in Ohio! You should have rotted in that wheelchair!"
***