Chapter 2 - The Vultures at Prescott Tower
Three days later, the intensive care unit on the ninth floor of New York-Presbyterian Hospital resembled a battle command center.
Monitors beeped in rhythmic cadence, tracking the unstable cardiac rhythm of the man whose firm controlled eight percent of North American logistics traffic. Outside the bulletproof glass windows, news helicopters hovered over the East River, broadcasting live updates on the health of the "Titan of Logistics."
Marcus Vale, Elliot’s chief operating officer, stood at the foot of the bed, holding an iPad displaying live stock market tickers. Graves Meridian shares had plummeted eleven percent since news of the inflight cardiac arrest broke.
"The board is calling an emergency session for four o'clock, Elliot," Marcus said, his voice clipped, free of any sympathy. "Arthur Graham has already signaled that he has the votes to appoint himself interim CEO if you remain ICU-admitted past Friday."
Elliot sat propped against three pillows, an IV line snaking into the back of his hand. His chest burned with every breath—a constant, brutal reminder of the broken rib and the little girl’s hands.
"Graham is a scavenger," Elliot rasped, his voice rough. "He wants to liquidate our cold-chain pharmaceutical sector to boost short-term dividends."
"He has the backing of the European investment funds," Marcus replied, moving closer. "Unless you walk into that boardroom on your own two feet tomorrow, you won't have a company left to command. I’ve arranged for a private medical transport to take you to Prescott Tower at three. We can lace your suit with a lumbar brace and pump you full of high-dose corticosteroids."
Elliot looked at Marcus. He had mentored Marcus for twelve years, paid for his children's Ivy League educations, and given him three percent of the company's non-voting equity. Yet Marcus wasn't looking at Elliot’s bruised face; he was watching the red numbers flicker on his tablet.
"Where is she?" Elliot asked suddenly.
Marcus paused, frowning. "Who? The cardiologist? Dr. Evans is reviewing your labs—"
"The girl on the plane," Elliot interrupted, his voice dropping into a harsh, commanding tone that made the heart monitor spike. "The girl who broke my rib to keep my blood pumping while three dozen millionaires watched me die."
Marcus let out a dismissive sigh, tapping the screen. "Elliot, please. Flight records from commercial airliners are covered under FAA privacy mandates, and frankly, we don't have time to chase down economy-class passengers. The media is running stories that you’re brain-damaged. We need to focus on Arthur Graham."
"Find her, Marcus," Elliot commanded, his pale blue eyes locking onto his second-in-command with lethal intensity. "If you don't have her name, her address, and her legal status on my desk by tomorrow morning, I will fire you before Graham even gets a chance to call the board to order."
Marcus’s jaw tightened. "Understood, sir."
That night, while the hospital slumbers under muted fluorescent lights, Elliot lay awake in the dark. The silence of the VIP suite was deafening. He reached for his personal phone—the one with only four contacts saved—and dialed a private investigator he had used during hostile corporate takeovers.
"Harrison," Elliot whispered into the receiver.
"Mr. Graves. I thought you were in a medically induced coma."
"I need a flight manifest from Flight 412, Charlotte to LaGuardia. Economy class. A mother and a ten-year-old girl. Find them before my own executive team does. And Harrison..."
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"Sir?"
"Don't tell Marcus Vale."
