Chapter 4 - The Heist of a Soul
Tessa hesitated for only a second before sliding into the leather interior of the SUV. The door clicked shut behind her, sealing out the noise of the city.
Barrett sat in the corner, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He looked older today, the strain of his sister's condition finally showing in the deep lines around his eyes.
"They kicked you out," Barrett said. It wasn't a question.
"Wesley got a court order," Tessa said, her voice shaking. "He has full control over her medical decisions now. Barrett... he’s going to kill her."
Barrett’s hand tightened around his glass. "What do you mean?"
"I overheard him talking to his lawyer in the hallway," Tessa said, the words spilling out in a rush. "They’re planning to file for an emergency C-section tomorrow morning. They’ll deliver the baby early, and then... and then Wesley is going to sign a Do Not Resuscitate order for Jolene. He’s going to claim she suffered a sudden, irreversible decline. Once she’s gone, there’s no witness. No one to tell the police what really happened in that kitchen."
The air in the SUV grew suffocatingly cold.
Barrett didn't yell. He didn't swear. He simply set his glass down on the console.
"Paul," Barrett said to the driver.
"Yes, boss?"
"Call Dr. Sterling. Tell him to prep the clinic in Galveston. We’re moving her."
Tessa gasped. "Galveston? Barrett, she’s on a ventilator! She’s on continuous fetal monitoring! You can't just wheel her out of a heavily guarded hospital. The transport alone could kill her and the baby!"
Barrett turned his icy gaze to Tessa. "If she stays there, she dies. If she comes with me, she has a chance. And you’re going to help us move her."
"Me?" Tessa shook her head, backing against the door. "No, no. That’s kidnapping. That’s a federal crime. I’ll lose my license, I’ll go to prison—"
"If you don't help us," Barrett said softly, "my sister dies. The baby dies. And Wesley Prescott wins. Is that what you want? To watch another man kill a woman and walk away?"
The words struck Tessa like a physical blow. She thought of her mother. She thought of the twelve-year-old girl who had stayed silent while a monster walked free.
She looked down at her hands, then back up at Barrett.
"How do we do it?" she asked.
The plan was madness, but it was their only hope.
At 2:00 a.m. the following night, precisely twenty-four hours after Jolene had been admitted, the hospital's power grid suffered a sudden, catastrophic failure.
The lights in the VIP wing went black. The backup generators kicked in, but there was a critical forty-five-second delay—a window that Barrett’s team had engineered.
In the darkness, Tessa, wearing her scrubs and a surgical mask, slipped into Room 412.
She quickly disconnected Jolene’s monitors, transferring her to a portable transport ventilator. Two of Barrett’s men, dressed as hospital orderly staff, wheeled a gurney into the room.
Within thirty seconds, they had loaded Jolene onto the gurney.
But as they reached the service elevator, the backup generators roared to life. The emergency lights flickered on, casting a red, eerie glow down the corridor.
At the end of the hallway, the heavy doors burst open.
Wesley Prescott stood there, flanked by three of his private security guards.
"Stop them!" Wesley screamed.
The guards drew their weapons, rushing down the hall.
"Go!" Tessa shouted, pushing the gurney toward the elevator.
Paul Greer stepped in front of the elevator doors, pulling a massive, modified shotgun from beneath his coat. He didn't fire at the guards; instead, he fired a single, deafening round into the ceiling, shattering the light fixtures and sending a shower of plaster and glass over the advancing security team.
"Get her down!" Paul roared.
The elevator doors closed just as Wesley’s guards reached them.
The descent to the basement loading dock felt like an eternity. Tessa kept her hand on Jolene’s pulse, her heart racing as she squeezed the manual resuscitation bag.
"Stay with me, Jolene," she whispered. "Just stay with me."
When the doors opened, a specialized, unmarked intensive-care ambulance was waiting. They loaded Jolene inside, and Tessa jumped in behind her.
As the ambulance sped out of the basement and into the dark Houston night, Tessa looked out the rear window.
May you like
Wesley Prescott stood on the loading dock, his face twisted in a mask of absolute, psychotic rage. He was on his phone, already screaming orders.
The hunt was on.
