Chapter 6 - The Lockdown at Memorial GeneralThe rain was lashing against the windshield of Thorne’s unmarked sedan as we pulled into the subterranean parking garage of Memorial General Hospital. The concrete cavern was cold, echoing with the drip of water pipes and the distant hum of ventilation units.
“The main lobby is crawling with corporate security,” Thorne warned, keeping the engine idling while he checked his rearview mirror. “Your mother’s estate manager has private guards stationed at every elevator bank. If they see you, they won't just escort you out—they’ll finish what the truck started on Route 9.”
“How do we get in?” I asked, pulling the collar of my borrowed dark jacket up around my neck to hide the bruises on my jaw.
“Service elevators at the back of the loading dock,” Thorne said, tossing me a laminated security badge. “Use this. It belongs to an orthopedic resident who’s currently fast asleep thanks to a heavy dose of night-shift melatonin. Scan it at the basement turnstile, take shaft four to the fourth floor, and head straight for ICU Wing B.”
“And you?”
“I’m staying in the car to monitor police scanners and keep security distracted if they trigger an alarm,” Thorne said, giving me a hard look. “Grant, be careful. The person pulling the strings in this hospital isn't just protecting a secret. They have everything to lose.”
I nodded, pushed the car door open, and stepped out into the damp, freezing air of the garage.
My ribs protested with every step, a dull, throbbing ache that reminded me of my fractured bones. But adrenaline was a powerful anesthetic. I kept my head down, marching toward the flickering fluorescent lights of the loading bay.
The service turnstile beeped green when I pressed Thorne’s stolen badge against the reader. The heavy metal gate unlocked with a mechanical clunk, letting me slip into the sterile, bleached-white bowels of the hospital.
The elevator ride to the fourth floor felt agonizingly slow. As the digital numbers ticked upward—1, 2, 3, 4—my mind raced.
Mara, what did you walk into?
The doors slid open with a soft chime.
ICU Wing B was deathly quiet. Unlike St. Catherine’s modern, bustling floors, Memorial General’s older wing smelled strongly of antiseptic and old paper. The lights overhead flickered intermittently, casting long, jittery shadows down the hallway.
I pressed my back against the wall, shuffling forward one agonizing step at a time.
At the nurses' station ahead, the desk was completely empty. A half-drunk cup of coffee sat beside an open computer terminal. But scattered across the desk were several printed financial statements, bearing the letterhead of Holloway Holdings.
I crept closer, picking up the top sheet.
My breath caught.
It was a wire transfer receipt dated yesterday—just hours before my car accident. Amount: Two million dollars. Recipient: Dr. Aris Thorne.
The blood rushed out of my face so fast I thought I was going to pass out right there on the linoleum.
Thorne.
The man who had just helped me escape. The man who had fed me the entire story about my mother, about Mara, about Owen’s murder.
He hadn't been helping me. He had been guiding me right into the slaughterhouse.
Before my brain could process the betrayal, a heavy hand slammed over my mouth from behind, and an arm banded around my fractured ribs like a steel vice.
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“Don’t make a sound,” a familiar, trembling voice hissed in my ear.
It was Mara.
