Chapter 2 - The Logic of the Golden Cage
“Get out,” Fiona said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, vibrating whisper as she stood up, her trauma shears still clutched in her right hand, her body completely shielding Arthur from the two figures in the doorway.
Dr. Reed stepped into the room, his expensive leather loafers crunching slightly against one of the fallen needles. He didn't look at Fiona; he looked at the severed pillow with the detached, analytical gaze of an engineer reviewing a failed blueprint.
“Miss Jenkins, you are entering a state of hysterical paranoia,” Reed said, his voice smooth, professional, and entirely devoid of human warmth. “The boy is experiencing a severe neurological episode. Those instruments you see on the floor are specialized acupuncture filaments I placed within the foam to stimulate his cervical vertebrae. It is an experimental treatment Dominic approved three months ago.”
“You’re a liar,” Fiona spat, her knuckles turning white around the handles of her shears. “These are 22-gauge spinal needles, Harrison. They’re coated with an unrefined neuromuscular blocker. Every time he lays his head down, you’re paralyzing his diaphragm and inducing localized seizures. You aren't treating him. You’re turning his brain into a vegetable so Victoria can claim the Costello estate when Dominic’s logistics network splits.”
Victoria let out a sharp, brittle laugh, her perfect manicured hand coming up to touch the diamond pendant at her throat. “You have quite the imagination for a girl from the South Side, Fiona. But unfortunately for you, Dominic isn't here to listen to your bedtime stories. He’s in a boardroom in Manhattan, and the phones in this house don't work during a thunderstorm. The security detail outside takes their orders from me when my husband is across state lines.”
She turned her head slightly, looking over her shoulder into the dark hallway. “Marcus. Come in here, please. Miss Jenkins is having a medical emergency of her own.”
A massive, heavyset enforcer stepped into the light. Marcus was one of the guards Dominic had left behind to secure the perimeter—a man with a broken nose and eyes like dull glass. He was wearing his charcoal suit, but his right hand was already tucked inside his jacket, his fingers resting on the butt of his weapon.
“Take the boy down to the private clinic room in the basement, Harrison,” Victoria ordered, her tone turning brisk and managerial. “And Marcus, take Miss Jenkins to the guest cottage near the lake. Make sure she stays comfortable until the storm passes. We’ll tell Dominic she panicked and abandoned the post when Arthur’s fever spiked.”
Marcus took a step forward, his large hand reaching out to grab Fiona’s shoulder.
Fiona didn't back down. She had spent six years working the trauma rotation at Northwestern; she had handled violent drunks, psychotic drug users, and desperate men twice Marcus’s size. As his hand closed around her scrub top, she brought the heavy, blunt metal tip of her titanium shears down onto the bridge of his nose with the full force of her body weight.
Crack.
The cartilage exploded under the impact. Marcus let out a guttural grunt of pain, his hands flying to his face as a torrent of dark blood poured through his fingers. He stumbled backward against the door frame, his gun falling from his jacket onto the marble floor.
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Fiona didn't wait for him to recover. She scooped the gun up, her fingers wrapping around the cold, textured grip of the Glock 19. She didn't know much about firearms, but she knew the basic geometry of a threat. She pointed the barrel straight at Dr. Reed’s chest, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
“Move away from the bed,” Fiona roared, the lightning illuminating her fierce, unyielding silhouette against the window. “Move away from him right now, or I swear to God I’ll find out if your medical license covers a 9mm hole.”
