Chapter 15 Do You Know How to Ask for Help?
Ryan pointed toward the entrance.
“There’s the door. No one’s stopping you.”
Whitmore stepped between them.
“Mr. Mercer, he’s an exceptional physician. Far more capable than I am.”
“Him?”
“Your father’s injuries are severe. Even if you find another doctor who can help, he may not survive the trip. I can’t judge exactly how much time he has, but I agree that he needs treatment now.”
For the first time, Mercer gave Ryan his full attention.
“You can save him?”
“Yes.”
Mercer hesitated, then changed his approach.
“Please treat him. Save my father and I’ll pay you seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
He knew he’d caused offense. The new offer was five times the first, and this time he made no threats about failure.
Ryan gave him a cold smile and approached the bed without answering.
He opened the old man’s shirt and took out the needles Whitmore had just given him.
His hands moved too quickly to follow. Within moments, needles covered the patient’s body.
An unnatural flush spread over the old man’s skin. His face reddened further, and his mouth opened as though he needed to cough but couldn’t.
Ryan waited about thirty seconds, then helped him sit up.
He placed his right palm against the man’s back and moved it slowly upward. He repeated the motion, shifted his hand, and delivered a firm slap.
The crack echoed through the room.
The old man lurched forward with a cry, expelling a long, harsh breath.
The redness faded from his skin. His breathing cleared.
Ryan eased him down, checked his pulse, and removed the needles. Then he wrote a prescription and left it on the table.
“He’s out of danger. Let him rest. Give him the medicine three times a day. Each batch lasts two days. Three batches should be enough for the injuries to heal.”
Mercer hurried to the bedside.
“Dad? How do you feel?”
His father was pale now, but his eyes were alert and his breathing steady.
“Better. I thought I was going to suffocate.”
Mercer let out a breath and turned to Ryan. He produced a prepaid debit card, his manner markedly more polite.
“Thank you, Dr. Carter. There’s seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars on this. Please take it.”
Ryan left the card hanging between them.
“Keep it. And leave. This is a small clinic. We’re clearly not equipped to deal with someone as important as you. Don’t come back.”
Whitmore stared at him.
Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Enough to buy a spacious house outright, and Ryan hadn’t hesitated to refuse it.
He was defending the clinic. Defending him.
Lily watched in open admiration. Ryan wouldn’t back down, even with that much money on offer.
Mercer slowly lowered the card.
He was unused to having his money rejected. Being ordered out was something else entirely.
His gaze hardened.
“Do you know who you’re speaking to?”
“Does it change anything I said?”
“One word from me, and this clinic closes tomorrow.”
“So I’m supposed to bow and scrape?” Ryan smiled without warmth. “You have money. Influence. Good for you. You don’t pay my bills. Why should I be afraid to speak?”
The bodyguards exchanged a glance and stepped forward. Mercer waved them back.
“You’re talented, Dr. Carter, but arrogant. How do you know you’ll never need my help?”
“Help?” Ryan held his gaze. “Do you even know how to ask for it? Your father was dying, and you walked in here threatening the man you wanted to save him.”
Mercer’s jaw tightened.
“If I never ask you for a favor, I’ll survive,” Ryan continued. “When you need me, you might not have that luxury. Without treatment, your father would have died here within fifteen minutes.”
He paused.
“You could have fifteen billion dollars. What good would it have done him?”
Mercer looked ready to explode. He could scarcely remember the last time anyone had dared speak to him like this.
Before he could answer, his father drew a deep breath.
His voice was weak. The command wasn’t.
“Victor. Apologize.”