Chapter 4 Antonio #2
I take a step back, watching the spectacle with a detached, clinical interest. The raw, unfiltered humanity of it is fascinating. This is the core of a man, stripped of all pretence, all civilization. This is what a beast looks like facing the abyss.
“Now, now, Pearce,” I chide softly. “This is a great honour. Your heart will beat in the chest of a demigod. You will be the reason he continues to shape the world. It’s more than you ever would have accomplished on your own.”
He screams then, a raw, ragged sound of utter despair that is utterly beautiful.
“Sedate him.”
The door hisses open. The nurse is a small, severe-looking woman in immaculate whites, her face a mask of professional disinterest. In her hands is a pre-filled syringe.
She doesn’t hesitate. She moves to Pearce’s straining neck, finds a pulse point amidst the chaos of his thrashing, and presses the device against his skin.
The effect is instantaneous. The violent tension in his body evaporates.
The scream dies in his throat, becoming a slurred, incoherent mumble.
His eyes, wide with terror, lose their focus, the brilliant blue clouding over like a sky filling with mist. His body goes limp in the guards’ arms, held upright only by their grip.
Silence returns to the white room, broken only by Pearce’s heavy, drugged breathing.
“Perfect,” I murmur. “Transport him to my helicopter, the nurse will accompany us. I want his vitals monitored continuously. He must arrive in perfect condition. His heart rate must be kept stable, his blood pressure optimal. He is precious cargo after all.”
The guards nod, hefting Pearce’s dead weight between them and they carry him out, while the nurse follows.
The thrum of the helicopter’s rotors is a vastly different beast from the hum of the facility. It’s a primal, vibrating roar that shakes through the bones of the aircraft and into my own. It’s the sound of imminent motion, of power unleashed.
I stare out the window as the complex shrinks below us, a nondescript series of low buildings hidden within a vast, private woodland.
From up here, it looks like nothing. A forgotten industrial park. Not a gilded cage for the most valuable livestock on earth.
We’ve built facilities like this all over the world in discreet, quiet little corners. We got the idea from a Brethren man who broke the rules more than a decade ago. He’d gotten too big for his boots. He’d thought that because he had a smidgen of power, he was somehow untouchable.
He was wrong.
I suppose though, I should be grateful to him for the idea.
Back then, he was trafficking people; the homeless, drug-addicts, undesirables of society.
The concept itself was sound, even if his implementation was flawed.
He kept his stock in cages, like animals.
He kept them in conditions not conducive for healthy organs. Our facilities are far more humane.
Pearce is strapped into his seat. The nurse sits beside him, her eyes fixed on a monitor that beeps with a steady, reassuring rhythm.
His chest rises and falls evenly under the thin thermal blanket.
He looks peaceful now, all that delicious fight washed away by the chemical tide in his veins.
His face is slack, the lines of anger and fear smoothed into an expression of empty serenity.
It’s a lie, of course. The storm is still in there, trapped behind a wall of drugs, screaming in a silent room.
I find my thoughts drifting to his sister, to Paitlyn’s mother.
Right now she too is drugged and immobile, locked in my basement, her life on pause until I am able to return and continue her torture.
I wonder how she will weep when she hears of her dear brother’s fate.
Perhaps I should ask for a video of his heart being removed from his chest, it would make a nice little keepsake for her to watch over and over again.
A smile touches my lips. The poetry of it is brutal and perfect. It’s these little touches, these intricate folds of fate that elevate mere power to true artistry.
The flight is smooth. I close my eyes, not to sleep, but to plan. The next steps are critical. The surgery is a delicate thing, even for the talents we employ. There can be no mistakes when all our lives depend on success.
The change in the rotor’s pitch signals our descent. I open my eyes to see the sprawling, illuminated campus of the private hospital coming into view.
We touch down with a gentle bump on the designated helipad. Before the rotors have even begun to slow, the rooftop access door flies open. Two orderlies, their faces grimly efficient, push a waiting gurney out into the whipping wind generated by the blades.
I unbuckle and slide the door open, the noise becoming a deafening roar.
I have to shout to be heard over it, gesturing at Pearce’s prone form.
The orderlies nod, working in tandem with my guard and the nurse to transfer him.
It is done with practiced, seamless speed and within seconds, he is being wheeled away.
As soon as I’m through the doors, the surgeon steps forward, his brow furrowed. “Antonio, the preliminary data you sent is promising, but we must run our own full panel. The HLA typing, the cross-match, we cannot proceed on your word alone, the risk of hyperacute rejection is…”
I don’t let him finish. I raise a single finger, bringing it to my lips.
The gesture is absurdly simple, yet it silences him instantly.
His mouth closes with a snap. He is a master of his world, a god in the operating theatre, but he knows the hierarchy.
He knows who provides the miracles he performs.
“He’s a match,” I say, my voice flat and final, cutting through the hospital quiet like a scalpel. It brooks no argument. It is a statement of fact. “Run your tests if it makes your conscience feel better, but do not waste time. Our Grand Master does not have time.”
I brush past him, following the direction the gurney went.
The orderlies are already transferring Pearce onto a surgical bed in a prep room.
Tubes are being inserted, lines are being connected.
He is becoming a component in a machine, and something about that feels reassuring.
Like the unworthy becoming worthy again.
The adrenaline that has been fuelling me for the last eighteen hours is beginning to recede, leaving a profound, leaden exhaustion in its wake. The weight of it presses down on my shoulders. I can feel the gritty dryness in my eyes, and the dull ache in my temples.
I find a sleek, minimalist chair in the waiting room and sink into it. The leather is cool through the fabric of my trousers. The silence is absolute, pressed down by the weight of the life-and-death decisions happening behind the closed doors around me.
A young woman in scrubs approaches tentatively. “Mr Macrae? Can I get you anything?”
I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes. “Coffee,” I say, the word coming out louder than I intended, a command that echoes in the hushed hall. “Black, and strong enough to wake the dead.”
Because I cannot sleep.
Not yet. God’s work is not done.
I will sit in this sterile, silent purgatory for as long as it takes. I will drink their bitter coffee, and I will wait for the word from the operating theatre. I need to hear that Konstantine’s new heart is beating strong and true in his chest.
I need to know that the man I serve is out of danger. Only then, when the last piece of this particular game is securely in place, will I allow myself to rest.