Chapter 7 - THE MIDNIGHT TRAUMA
The emergency room doors of Chicago Memorial Hospital slid open with a violent crash. Rain poured from the midnight sky, soaking the paramedics as they pushed a bloody gurney into Trauma Bay One. Emma snapped on a pair of blue latex gloves, her heart settling into its familiar, focused rhythm.
"John Doe, multiple stab wounds to the abdomen, massive blood loss," the lead paramedic shouted over the chaos. "Found him dumped in a downtown alley with no wallet, but he kept asking for a nurse named Emma." Emma froze for a fraction of a second. She moved to the head of the bed, shining a penlight into the patient's unresponsive eyes.
Beneath the bruised, swollen face and the layers of dried blood, the features were terrifyingly familiar. It was Peter Lang, the disgraced financial advisor who had helped Claire orchestrate her fraud. He was supposed to be serving a light sentence in a minimum-security federal camp in upstate New York.
"Get him intubated and prep for an immediate cross-match," the attending physician yelled, pressing sterile gauze into Peter's side. "His pressure is crashing, we need two units of O-negative blood right now." Emma moved with practiced precision, hooking up the IV lines while her mind raced with horrific possibilities.
Suddenly, Peter’s blood-stained hand shot out, gripping Emma’s wrist with surprising, desperate strength. His eyes fluttered open, wildly searching the bright fluorescent lights until they locked onto her face. He was drowning in his own blood, but he refused to let the doctor insert the breathing tube.
"Emma," Peter choked out, crimson bubbles forming at the corners of his lips. "She isn't done." "Peter, you need to stay completely still," Emma said softly, trying to gently pry his fingers away. "We are going to save you, but you have to let us work."
"No time," he gasped, his grip tightening until her bones ached. "Claire hid five hundred million in a Cayman shell company before the trial. She bought your husband's corporate debt through proxies, and tomorrow morning, she is taking his company."
The heart monitor began to blare a high-pitched, continuous alarm as Peter’s eyes rolled back into his head. The attending physician shoved Emma back, grabbing the defibrillator paddles to shock the dying man's heart. Emma stumbled against the stainless steel counter, the breath completely knocked out of her lungs.
Claire was sitting in a maximum-security prison, locked away behind reinforced steel and concrete. Yet, she had somehow reached out from the darkness to slit Peter's throat and dismantle Nathan's life. The nightmare they had buried three years ago was clawing its way back to the surface.
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Emma ripped off her bloody gloves and ran toward the nurses' station to grab her phone. She dialed Nathan’s secure line, praying he would answer despite the late hour. He picked up on the second ring, his deep voice instantly calming her racing heart.
"Emma, is everything alright?" Nathan asked, the sound of a corporate charity gala echoing faintly in the background. "Nathan, you need to leave the gala right now and call federal security," Emma said, her voice shaking violently. "Peter Lang is dying in my trauma bay, and Claire is coming for your entire empire tomorrow morning."
