Chapter 4 - The Race Against Time
The atmosphere inside the estate shifted from a house of mourning to an underground bunker of intense, frantic activity within minutes.
I didn't care about the risk. I didn't care about protocols. I ordered Dr. Franklin Yates and his entire emergency surgical team to relocate immediately from their downtown lab to the secure medical suite in my east wing, backing up the demand with armed enforcers stationed outside their homes. By 8:00 p.m., high-tech centrifuges, blood separators, and cryogenic storage units were humming inside my mansion, transforming my home into a makeshift biotech laboratory.
Clara sat in an examination chair in the adjoining prep room, looking remarkably calm as a nurse inserted a thick IV needle into her right arm. The synthetic antibodies and white blood cells were being drawn off in a specialized filtration process, a golden-hued plasma separating from her red cells under the harsh surgical lights.
I stood by the glass partition, watching her every move through the transparent wall.
"Lawson," Prescott murmured, stepping up beside me with a secure satellite phone in his hand. "We checked her background. Every word she said about Vanguard Bio-Genetics checks out. Federal archives confirm a deep-cover raid on a clandestine genetics facility in Indiana ten years ago. She was listed as a missing survivor, presumed dead."
"She survived," I said, my eyes never leaving Clara’s face through the glass. "And she walked right through my front door."
"There's more," Prescott hesitated, lowering his voice. "Word's leaking out on the street that the Outfit's eastern syndicate knows about the medical equipment moving into your estate. They think you're vulnerable. Sal Marcone is mobilizing his enforcers. They're planning to test your defenses tonight while the twins are weak."
A dark, lethal shadow crossed my mind. Sal Marcone. A second-rate dog trying to bite the hand of a wounded wolf.
"Let him come," I said coldly, reaching into my jacket to check the spare magazine of my sidearm. "We have ten days for my kids. Marcone doesn't even have ten minutes if he steps foot on my property."
Inside the prep room, Clara finished her donation cycle, the IV being taped off by the lead nurse. She stood up, swaying slightly from dizziness, but waved away the nurse’s assistance. She walked out of the prep room and met me through the sliding door of the twins' suite.
"The plasma is ready," Clara said, her voice breathy and tired. "We need to run the dual transfusion for Jonah and Blythe immediately before their white blood cell counts drop any further."
"You should rest," I told her, my tone softening despite my best efforts to keep my mob-boss armor intact. "You just gave half your life force away."
"I've been dying for ten years, Lawson," she smiled faintly, a bitter, beautiful expression. "Let me spend what's left of it keeping your children alive."
Dr. Yates wheeled the mobile transfusion apparatus between the two hospital beds. Two fine needles were inserted into Jonah’s thin arm, and two into Blythe’s. As the golden-hued plasma began flowing through the clear plastic tubing, illuminating the room with a faint amber glow, the digital monitors by their beds instantly registered a shift.
The erratic, frantic spiking of their heart rates began to smooth out. The dangerous fever spikes on their thermal readouts started to cool.
Jonah stirred, opening his eyes wider than he had in weeks. He looked over at his sister, then turned his head toward me and Clara standing by the bedside.
"Dad?" Jonah whispered, his voice stronger than before. "Is the bad sleep over?"
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I felt a tear break free, cutting a hot path down my scarred cheek as I caught his hand. "Yeah, buddy," I choked out, looking across the bed at Clara, who stood smiling through her own tears. "The bad sleep is finally over."
Suddenly, the heavy glass window facing the front courtyard shattered with an explosive crack that rattled the picture frames on the walls.
