Chapter 3 - THE COLD EXTRACTIONThe rain battered the fortified windows of the Lake Forest estate, turning the sprawling courtyard into a watery abyss. Inside the sterile medical wing on the mansion's lower level, Dr. Everett Kline packed his titanium metal case with clinical precision.
"Your vitals are stable, Dominic," Kline said, his bespectacled face reflecting the harsh fluorescent light above the examination table. "Though your heart rate spiked briefly before I came in. Were you agitated?"
Dominic sat upright in his wheelchair, his expression mask-like. "Grant was here. He talks too much."
"Naturally. Mr. Mercer carries a tremendous burden running the day-to-day operations," Kline replied smoothly, snapping his briefcase shut. He turned toward the sink to wash his hands. "Make sure you finish the oral supplements I prescribed. They maintain the chemical balance in your lower extremities to prevent violent cramping."
As Kline dried his hands with a paper towel, a soft knock sounded at the medical room door.
Clara slipped inside, holding a tray with a fresh pitcher of iced water. Her uniform was crisp, her demeanor entirely subservient. "Pardon me, Dr. Kline. Mr. Vale requested fresh ice."
"Leave it on the counter, girl," Kline said dismissively, not even bothering to look at her as he reached for his coat.
As Kline turned back to grab his briefcase, Clara’s hand moved with lightning speed. Hidden beneath the edge of the silver tray was a sterile, empty pharmaceutical vial Dominic had managed to secure from a locked supply drawer earlier that morning.
While Kline adjusted his scarf, Clara pretended to stumble slightly against the side of the medical waste bin. Her elbow clipped Kline’s open briefcase, sending a loose stack of discarded syringes and cotton swabs clattering to the floor.
"Oh! I am so, so sorry!" Clara gasped, dropping to her knees in a flurry of apologies.
"Clumsy little fool," Kline snapped, irritation flashing in his eyes as he bent down to help her gather the medical waste.
In that single, chaotic second of distraction, Clara’s fingers slipped into the side pocket of Kline’s discarded lab coat hanging over the chair. Her fingers brushed against a small, half-full biohazard vial labeled with a handwritten alphanumeric code: VALE-NEURO-SYN-04.
With a silent, practiced motion, she slid the vial into the deep pocket of her apron, replacing it instantly with a duplicate saline ampoule she had concealed in her palm.
"Get out, Clara," Dominic commanded sharply, playing his part to perfection to deflect any suspicion from the doctor. "And watch your step before you break something else."
"Yes, Mr. Vale. Forgive me," Clara stammered, scrambling to her feet and hurrying out of the room.
Ten minutes later, Dr. Kline’s black sedan rolled down the gated driveway into the stormy night, carrying the exact chemical proof Dominic needed. But as the taillights vanished into the dark, a pair of cold, watchful eyes tracked the vehicle from a second-floor security monitor.
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Grant Mercer stood in the shadows of the master security room, watching the feed on a split-screen monitor. His finger tapped rhythmically against the glass of his scotch tumbler.
"Why is the cleaning girl spending so much time in the medical wing?" Grant murmured to himself, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face. "Time to check the cameras."
