Chapter 5 - The First Infusion
The clinical protocol began at seven o'clock on Thursday morning.
Outside the limestone mansion, the rain had finally stopped, leaving behind a cold, grey Chicago morning draped in heavy fog. Inside the master bedroom, the air scrubbers hummed continuously, maintaining a positive pressure environment that kept every outside contaminant at bay.
Cordelia sat in the motorized medical bed, her head covered by a dark blue cashmere turban that Atticus had ordered from London. Her face was dangerously pale, her lips dry and cracked.
Beside her, Dr. Mercer and Dr. Vance were meticulously preparing the primary IV line. The clear bag of MRTX-1133 hung on the stainless-steel pole like a vessel of liquid judgment.
Atticus sat in the armchair right beside the bed, holding Cordelia's right hand tightly in his own. He was wearing a sterile surgical gown over his clothes, his face partially covered by a blue mask, though his intense blue eyes remained fixed entirely on her face.
"Cordelia," Dr. Vance said, holding a syringe containing an anti-emetic premedication. "We are going to start the loading dose now. You are going to feel a cold sensation spreading through your chest, followed by a slight metallic taste in your mouth. That is completely normal. If you feel any sudden tightness in your chest, shortness of breath, or sharp abdominal pain, tell us instantly."
Cordelia nodded weakly. "Do it."
Vance pushed the plunger of the syringe into the Y-port of her line.
Atticus squeezed her fingers. He felt her muscle tension spike instantly. Her eyes opened wide, her chest heaving as the powerful synthetic compound surged into her central venous line, traveling straight down the superior vena cava into her heart, and pumping out through her circulatory system to target the deep abdominal tumor.
"Cold," Cordelia gasped, her knuckles turning white as she gripped Atticus's hand. "It... it feels like ice water in my heart."
"I'm here, baby," Atticus whispered, leaning in close, pressing his masked face against her cheek. "Hold on to me. Just hold on to me."
"Tachycardia spiking—one hundred and twenty," Dr. Mercer announced, watching the vitals monitor closely. "Blood pressure is rising: one-forty over ninety-five."
"Is that normal?!" Atticus barked, his head snapping toward Mercer.
"It's an acute stress response to the loading agent," Mercer replied, his voice steady. "Give it two minutes. The autonomic nervous system is reacting to the targeted binding."
For two agonizing minutes, the only sound in the room was the rapid, frantic beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor and the heavy, ragged breathing of the woman Atticus loved more than life itself.
Cordelia's eyes rolled back slightly. A cold sweat broke out across her forehead. She shuddered violently, her body shaking under the fleece blankets as if she had been plunged into an arctic lake.
"Atticus..." she whimpered, her voice tiny, terrified. "It hurts. My stomach... it feels like fire."
Atticus stood up, leaning over the bed, his broad frame blocking out the room, making himself the only thing she could see. "Look at me, Cordy! Look right into my eyes! Don't look at the monitors, don't look at the doctors! Look at me!"
She forced her eyes to focus on his.
"You are stronger than this drug," Atticus said, his voice dropping into a powerful, rhythmic incantation of pure, unyielding will. "You survived twenty years with me. You survived street wars, death threats, and bullets. This tiny little molecule is nothing compared to you. You hear me? Nothing!"
Slowly, agonizingly, the rapid beep-beep-beep of the monitor began to decelerate.
115... 110... 102... 94.
The shivering subsided into a low, steady tremor. The flush on her pale cheeks retreated.
Dr. Vance let out a breath he had been holding for sixty seconds. He looked at the telemetry readouts, then looked at Atticus with newfound respect. "Systemic stabilization achieved. The targeted drug is binding. The first phase is complete."
Cordelia’s eyelids grew heavy, weighted down by the heavy sedatives mixed into the infusion. She looked up at Atticus, her sight blurring as sleep pulled her under.
"You're... you're very bossy, Mr. Graham," she mumbled, her voice slurred.
A faint, breathtakingly tender smile touched the corners of Atticus's mouth beneath his surgical mask. "I'm the boss, Cordy. It's in the job description."
"Don't leave..."
"I'm not going anywhere," he whispered. "I'll be right here when you wake up."
As Cordelia fell into a deep, drug-induced sleep, the door to the bedroom opened an inch. Silas tapped lightly on the wood.
Atticus gently released Cordelia's hand, checked her pulse one last time with his own fingers, and stepped out into the hallway.
"What happened with Moretti?" Atticus asked quietly.
Silas held up a tablet displaying a live news broadcast from WGN Chicago.
On the screen, Sal Moretti—the ruthless crime boss who had tried to seize Pier 42 thirty-six hours ago—was being led out of his suburban estate in handcuffs by a dozen heavily armed FBI agents. Federal prosecutors were already announcing an emergency indictment charging him under the RICO act for international narcotics trafficking and union racketeering.
"The federal judge just denied bail," Silas reported, a terrifying grin spreading across his face. "Sal's done, Atticus. His entire family is scrambling for cover. Nobody is thinking about Pier 42 anymore. Nobody is thinking about you."
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Atticus looked at the TV screen for two seconds, completely unimpressed by the destruction of his greatest rival. He turned his back on the screen, looking back toward the closed door of the master bedroom where the real war was being fought.
"Good," Atticus said quietly. "Now clean the lower floor again. The delivery for next week's infusion arrives on Tuesday."
