Chapter 64 - The Surgeon of Dead Harbor
The door to the dry-dock basement gave way under Julian’s shoulder with a sharp groan of rusted iron.
Elena stumbled inside, her lungs burning, her arms trembling under the weight of the child. The air inside the subterranean clinic smelled of formaldehyde, stale tobacco, and saltwater mold. Rows of yellowed medical charts lined the water-damaged walls, and an antique operating table under an overhead surgical lamp sat in the center of the concrete floor.
From the shadows behind a surgical partition, an old man stepped into the light, leveling a double-barreled trench gun at Julian’s face.
His hair was an untamed shock of silver, his face weathered like driftwood, and his left eye was covered by a leather patch.
"I told your mother if she ever sent another one of her dogs to my dock, I’d blow them out into the harbor," the old man growled.
"Uncle Peter," Elena gasped, stepping out from behind Julian’s shadow.
The old man froze. The heavy shotgun dropped an inch, then two. His single eye widened in disbelief as he took in Elena’s battered frame, her bruised jaw, and the bundle clutched against her chest.
"Elena?" Peter whispered, his voice trembling. "They told me... the news said you drowned off the yacht in Newport three weeks ago."
"Victoria tried to drown me," Elena said, stepping toward him, her voice breaking. "She held me down at the ladder. But I’m here. And she did this to my baby."
Peter dropped the shotgun onto a wooden crate and hurried forward, his gnarled hands gently pulling aside the swaddle. The moment his fingers brushed the glowing subcutaneous grid on the infant's back, his weathered face turned completely gray.
"Alistair's biological lock," Peter breathed, horror flattening his tone. "He actually finished it."
"Can you remove it?" Julian demanded, leaning against an iron support beam, struggling to remain conscious. "We have thirty-one minutes before the relay pings the offshore tankers."
Peter rushed to an ancient stainless-steel instrument tray, pulling down a magnifying visor over his good eye. "Remove it? Julian, if I sever the wrong lead, the micro-charge at the base of the capsule will detonate. It’s designed to incinerate the cervical spine to prevent reverse-engineering of the patent."
Elena grabbed the front of her uncle’s blood-spotted lab coat. "You are going to save my daughter, Peter. You hear me? You survived this family. I survived them. She is not dying in this filthy basement."
Peter looked into Elena’s eyes—eyes that held the desperate, unyielding savagery of a mother with nothing left to lose.
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"Get her on the table," Peter commanded, snapping on latex gloves. "Julian, prime the local lidocaine and fire up the signal scrambler on that workbench. If Victoria's team is hunting that frequency, they already know we’re here."
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