Chapter 14 - The Salt Marsh Trap
The storm raged violently as the SUV tore down Interstate 65 at breakneck speeds, hydroplaning over slick asphalt. Clara sat in the front passenger seat, running real-time telemetry from Bruno’s cardiac monitor linked to her phone.
"His heart rate is stabilizing, but his kidney function is plummeting," Clara said, her fingers flying across her keyboard as she adjusted the automated dosage remotely. "If we don't clear the toxin from his bloodstream within two hours, he will suffer complete organ failure."
"We need the neutralizing agent," Alessio said, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "And the only place that synthetic toxin is synthesized is Thorne’s chemical distribution facility at the Salt Marsh boatyard."
Thirty minutes later, the SUV veered off the highway onto a desolate gravel road in Lake County. The Salt Marsh boatyard rose out of the mist like a rusted iron skeleton, surrounded by black water and swaying reeds.
Alessio killed the headlights, coasting to a silent halt outside a large metal warehouse.
"Stay in the car, Clara," Alessio ordered, reaching for his tactical vest.
"Not a chance," Clara said, pulling a specialized medical extraction kit from her bag. "You don't know what the compound looks like. I do. We go together."
They moved through the shadow of rusted shipping containers, rain pounding against their hoods. Inside the main warehouse, shipping crates were stacked high under harsh halide floodlights.
In the center of the floor stood Julian Thorne, wearing an immaculate grey coat, overseeing technicians packing crates with pharmaceuticals.
"You're late, Alessio," Thorne’s calm, cultured voice echoed across the cavernous room.
Alessio stepped into the light, his hand hovering over his sidearm. "Hand over the antidote for Bruno, Thorne. And this ends tonight."
May you like
Thorne chuckled softly, stepping back as four heavily armed guards stepped out from behind the crates, targeting red laser sights onto Alessio's chest.
"You really thought this was about an eighteen million dollar debt?" Thorne smiled thinly. "Don Vito didn't just borrow money, Alessio. He gave me the proprietary formula for the synthetic cardiac blocks your clinic uses. Your sweet little community hospital in Indiana is sitting on top of a thirty-million-dollar pharmaceutical patent portfolio. And tonight, Miss Lin is going to sign it over to me—or watch Old Bruno die on a video monitor."
