Chapter 2 - The Cold Ward
The black Maybach cut through the rain-slicked streets of downtown, its engine humming quietly as it navigated toward the city's south side.
Inside the cavernous leather back seat, Mia and Maya sat side by side, their tiny legs sticking straight out, staring in wide-eyed wonder at the glowing blue ambient lights and the soft leather seats. Marcus sat in the front passenger seat, frantically working on his tablet, making phone calls in hushed, urgent tones.
"Boss," Marcus said, turning his head back. "I pulled the records on Sarah Vance. She’s twenty-eight. Six years ago, she was a senior chemical engineer at Vance Bio-Tech—her father’s firm. After the firm went bankrupt following a suspicious lab fire, her father passed away, and she vanished from the industry. She’s been working three part-time jobs for the last four years to support the girls."
Wesley looked down at Maya, who had fallen fast asleep against his ribs, exhausted by the cold and fear. Her sister, Mia, was still awake, clutching her plastic grocery bag like a shield.
"What happened to her yesterday?" Wesley asked quietly.
"A hit-and-run near the industrial docks at 9:00 PM," Marcus replied, his eyes darkening. "Severe blunt force trauma. Internal bleeding. She was rushed to St. Jude’s as an unidentified Jane Doe until a diner clerk recognized her photo this morning. She’s currently in a medically induced coma. The driver fled the scene, but traffic cameras in the area were mysteriously disabled twenty minutes before the crash."
Wesley’s jaw tightened. "Mysteriously disabled?"
"Yes, sir. The city police logged it as a routine power surge, but my tech team looked into the grid logs. It was a targeted bypass."
A cold realization settled over Wesley. This wasn't just a tragic accident of poverty. There was a human hand driving this misery.
Twenty minutes later, the Maybach pulled into the cracked, oil-stained parking lot of St. Jude’s Memorial Hospital. The building was an imposing slab of gray concrete built in the 1970s, its windows grimy, its lobby smelling heavily of bleach and old tobacco.
Wesley walked through the sliding glass doors carrying both children, Marcus trailing behind with two armed private security contractors he had summoned en route.
In the third-floor ICU, the air was cold and smelled of antiseptic. Rows of vinyl-curtained beds lined the ward, monitors chirping in chaotic, uncoordinated rhythms.
A tired-looking nurse stepped out from behind a central desk, her eyes widening as she saw a man in a five-thousand-dollar suit carrying two filthy toddlers, flanked by two imposing security men.
"Can I help you, sir?" she asked defensively. "Visiting hours for general ward aren't until—"
"Where is Sarah Vance?" Wesley demanded, his voice cutting through the clinical background noise.
"Are you family?"
"I am her legal representative as of five minutes ago," Wesley said coldly. "Show me her room."
The nurse swallowed hard and led them down a narrow corridor to Bed 14.
Sarah Vance lay beneath a thin, yellowed hospital blanket. Her face was deathly pale, covered in dark, purple bruises, a thick white bandage wrapped tightly around her head. An old ventilator tube hummed beside her bed, its rhythmic clicking the only sign that she was still breathing.
When Mia saw her mother, a terrible, heartbroken sob tore from her small chest. "Mama!"
She squirmed out of Wesley's arms, landing on her feet and scrambling onto the side of the metal hospital bed. She grabbed Sarah’s limp, pale hand, pressing her dirty cheek against her mother's cold knuckles. "Mama, wake up! We found a mister! He didn't have a dad at his store, but he drove us in his big shiny car!"
Maya woke up, her eyes wide with terror, and began to cry silently, her small shoulders shaking as she clung to Wesley’s neck.
Wesley stood over the bed, looking at the bruised, shattered woman who had clearly given every ounce of her life to keep these two little girls alive. He looked at the rusted IV pole, the flickering heart monitor that looked twenty years old, and the thin blanket that offered no warmth against the draft coming from the window.
"Marcus," Wesley said softly.
"Yes, Mr. Davis?"
"Call Dr. Harrison at the University Medical Center. Tell him I am transferring a critical patient to the private wing immediately. I want a dedicated trauma team, private transport, and the best neurosurgeons in the state waiting at the bay."
The attending ward physician, a balding man with dark circles under his eyes, rushed out from a side room. "Hold on! You can't just transfer an unstable ICU patient without proper paperwork! Who is going to pay for a private transport to UMC? That's fifty thousand dollars just for the air ambulance!"
May you like
Wesley pulled a thick, black metallic card from his wallet and slammed it onto the nurse's station counter with enough force to echo down the hall.
"Charge it," Wesley said, his eyes burning with absolute authority. "And if she suffers a single complication because your equipment failed, I will buy this hospital just to fire you personally."
