10. The Rothman Connection #2
“Security is clinical,” Matthias says. “Electronic locks. Nurse stations. Badge access. Medication carts. Orderlies assigned to patient wings. No visible firearms during the day, but that doesn’t make it less dangerous.”
“No,” Jan says. “Syringes are quieter.”
Matthias looks at her. “Exactly.”
Everyone in the room takes that in.
We’ve breached estates, yachts, compounds, ports, and offices. We know how to read guards with weapons. This is different. A woman can be restrained here without anyone calling it captivity. A sedative can be logged as care. A locked door can be called patient protection.
“What happens if they resist leaving?” Crew asks.
“They may not recognize rescue as rescue,” Matthias says. “That’s the point of the conditioning.”
Jan looks down at the dosage notes Rothman helped confirm. “Then we move inside the dosing window.”
Jan looks at Matthias. “Rothman confirmed something we thought might be true. If Strauss misses a reinforcement cycle, the compounds begin losing stability.”
Matthias goes still for half a second.
“Yes,” he says. “Strauss runs reinforcement cycles every seventy-two hours. If I interrupt the next cycle, the compounds begin losing stability before he can lock the conditioning back in. That gives us an opening, but not a wide one.”
“How wide?” Victor asks.
“Six hours at most.”
Felicity’s fingers move across her laptop, and the map tightens around the patient wing.
“So we’re not planning a raid,” I say.
“No,” Jan answers before anyone else can. “We’re planning a medical evacuation.”
Matthias’s gaze flicks to Bliss’s marker on the map.
“Yes.”
I stare at the unobtrusive green shape of the institute, the walking paths, the therapy rooms, the locked wings hidden inside all that soft landscaping.
This place isn't a fortress. It's worse. A fortress is built to stop people getting in. This place was designed to stop women getting out.
The Meridian Memory Institute calls the locks healing, the drugs treatment, and the women inside patients.
Victor saves the updated map and looks around the room.
“Then we plan for five.”
Jan closes Rothman’s folder and opens a fresh page.
“Five patients. Five medication histories. Five recovery plans.”
“And one six-hour window,” I say.
On the screen, Matthias nods once.
“After that,” he says, “Strauss will know I’ve interfered.”
The weight of the mission settles over all of us.
This isn’t a conventional extraction. It’s a race against a dosing schedule.
And somewhere inside that building, five women are being taught not to trust the hands coming to save them.
Blackstone Ventures HQ, San Francisco. 1300 hours
By one o’clock, the mission stops being theory and starts becoming real.
Victor assigns the Learjet before anyone asks. Oregon is close enough to reach fast and far enough that driving wastes time we no longer have.
Crew and Jax start building the flight manifest, keeping the team small enough to move cleanly and large enough to handle five patients who may not understand rescue when it arrives.
Jan sits beside me with three folders open at once. Medication windows. Recovery needs. Post-extraction triage. She’s already ruled out MacLeod’s Summit without saying it, and I agree before she has to.
“MacLeod’s Baby Bump Hotel Sausalito,” she says.
Victor looks up.
“Private floor,” Jan continues. “Multiple rooms, controlled elevator access, space for Dr. Tran, medical supplies, and enough separation that the women won’t wake up stacked together like another ward.”
“Agreed,” Victor says. “Mercy coordinates rooms and staff cover. Liberty handles medical setup with Janice. Grayson and Felicity keep the interactive map live from here.”
“Who flies?” I ask.
Victor turns the Oregon compound layout toward us. “Steve, Janice, Jax, Angus, Cole, Liberty, Dimitry, and Crew deploy to Oregon. Matthias remains inside until extraction.”
He looks at Jan.
“You’re going in.”
She doesn’t hesitate.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
Victor nods toward the patient wing on the map.
“This isn’t a tactical target. It’s a functioning medical facility. You’re the only person who can walk into a ward and know, at a glance, who’s safe to move, who needs a wheelchair, and who belongs on a stretcher.”
Jan studies the floor plan.
“We’ll need clinical clothing. Hospital scrubs, ID badges, patient transport equipment. Two wheelchairs to start. One stretcher as a contingency. Everything has to look routine.”
Crew makes a note. “I can source the transport gear before we leave.”
“Liberty stays with the vehicles,” Victor says. “The moment patients come out, she takes over triage while Jan and Matthias keep the extraction moving.”
Jan nods. “We’ll assess each woman as we reach her. If she can walk with assistance, she walks. If she can’t, we use a wheelchair. A stretcher only if Matthias says moving her upright isn’t safe.”
Cole folds his arms. “So we don’t look like an entry team.”
“No,” I say. “We look like the people who belong there.”
“Ground transport in Oregon?” Crew asks.
“Two SUVs waiting in a private hangar outside Eugene,” Victor says. “Local paperwork says medical consulting team. Daniel’s federal contact has airspace and landing records shielded under a corporate privacy order.”
Serenity looks up from her notes. “I’ve confirmed it with Jillaine. Sausalito will be ready, the whole floor offline to the public by fifteen hundred. Staff are being told it’s a private postpartum wellness retreat.”
I almost laugh.
Only HAVEN could turn a rescue mission into a postpartum wellness retreat.
The rest of me appreciates the cover.
Jan stares at the map for a long time.
“Everything connects,” she says quietly. “We just couldn’t see the picture until now.”
I look at Rothman and Sterling lit beside the Meridian fronts, at the ten empty spaces where families are still hiding, and at five patient markers glowing inside the institute.
“We’re seeing it now,” I say. “And they won’t like what we do with it.”
Jan closes the folder.
“Then let’s go get Bliss.”