Chapter 8 - THE TRAP AT THE CLINICBy 2:00 AM, the storm had cleared, leaving the streets of downtown Chicago slick with black ice and freezing rain.
Dr. Everett Kline sat alone in the sterile, high-security basement of his private medical facility on the city's near North Side. His desk was littered with shredded financial documents and encrypted hard drives he was frantically scrubbing before fleeing the country.
Buzz. Buzz.
The secure desk intercom chimed. Kline jumped, pressing the receiver with a trembling finger. "Yes?"
"Doctor," a calm, synthesized voice filtered through the speaker—a voice generated by Clara’s laptop using audio samples of Dominic’s speech. "Mr. Vale is experiencing severe neurological convulsions. He requires an immediate dose of Formula 04. Bring your medical case and come to the private carriage house entrance immediately."
Kline cursed under his breath. "I told him not to exert himself. I'm on my way."
He grabbed his titanium metal case, threw on his heavy wool overcoat, and marched out toward the subterranean parking garage. He unlocked his black sedan, tossed the case onto the passenger seat, and fired up the engine.
As he shifted into reverse, the overhead fluorescent lights of the parking garage suddenly flickered and died, plunging the entire level into pitch blackness.
Kline slammed on the brakes. "What the hell...?"
From the shadows of the concrete pillars, heavy boots crunched against the wet floor.
Kline reached frantically for the glove compartment, but before his fingers could brush the handle, the driver’s side window shattered inward in an explosion of safety glass. A strong, calloused hand reached through the broken frame, grabbed Kline by the collar of his coat, and dragged him halfway out the window.
"Looking for your gear, Doctor?" a deep, familiar voice rumbled from the darkness.
Kline gasped, his face pressing against the jagged glass. As the security emergency lights kicked on, he looked up into the cold, unblinking eyes of Dominic Vale.
Dominic wasn't in his wheelchair. He stood beside the car, leaning slightly against the door frame for balance, his right hand gripping Kline’s collar with terrifying strength.
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"D-Dominic?!" Kline stammered, his face turning pale with absolute terror. "You... you shouldn't be standing. Your spine—"
"My spine is healing just fine, Everett," Dominic whispered, his face inches from the doctor's. "Now... let's talk about the cocktail you've been feeding me for the last two thousand days."
