Chapter 24 #3
Hunt checked the monitor himself. Flatline. “Keep going,” he said. “Epi, one milligram.”
A PA slid in, pushing the syringe. “Second IV’s in.”
“O-neg on the rapid infuser,” Hunt ordered.
Ford did not look up. He kept the rhythm. Kept the pressure. One, two, three…
Hartt moved to the airway, sealing the mask, forcing controlled breaths. “End-tidal low. No change.”
“Two minutes,” Hunt said. “Then rhythm check.”
The room around them blurred into motion. Down the hall, stretchers rolled in. Orders were being shouted. Operators were clearing space.
Ford stayed locked in.
“Switch,” Hunt said.
A medic took over compressions. Ford shifted to assist, eyes on the patient, on the monitor, on the clock.
“Check rhythm.” Hands off.
“Flat line. Asystole,” Hunt said. “Resume.”
Compressions restarted. “Second epi here,” Rios said. “One given en route.”
“Push it,” Hunt ordered.
Nothing changed. There was no pulse, no rhythm and no response.
They team worked through another cycle and another check. There was no rhythm. She was flatline. The monitor squealed.
Rios looked at Hunt. Hunt looked at the patient. Ford saw it before either of them said it. She was too far gone.
Hunt leaned in, listening once more. He checked her pupils and straightened. “Time of death, 19:41.” He turned off the monitor.
Rios closed her eyes for half a second. Then she moved. “I’ll go help check the other pregnant women.”
Inside the maternity room, controlled chaos took over. Liana and Flynn moved with the incoming wave, directing nurses and med techs.
“Everyone is on isolation precautions. She goes to Bed 3, Isolation,” Liana said. “She’s febrile and contracting.”
“Get fluids running,” Flynn added. “CBC, CMP, STI panel. Type and screen, viral panel, UA, now.”
Nurses split the patients up efficiently. Monitors were clipped on. IV lines were placed. Oxygen was administered.
“Next,” Liana said, not slowing.
Each girl was assessed and triaged.
KASAVOA DOCKS
Back on the dock, the noise dropped now that the pregnant women and babies were taken to the clinic. Only the couple and the two crew remained from the second boat.
Tate stepped forward with four level-three operators behind him. He turned to the nearest island patrol officer. “Who’s in charge here?”
“I am,” the officer said.
“Tate,” he replied. “Chase Security.”
The officer nodded once.
Tate gestured toward the harbor. “I want that first boat secured. Bring me the four passengers and two crew who came in earlier.”
“On it,” the officer said, already moving.
Within minutes, the second group was escorted down the dock. They looked tired and uneasy. They were also watching everything.
Tate let both groups settle where he could see them all. Two very different stories from the same island.
He stepped into the center of them. “Good evening, my name is Tate Webster. I’m here from Chase International. Under better circumstances, I would separate all of you and conduct formal interviews.” He let that sit for a second. “We are not in better circumstances.”
No one spoke.
“I need answers about Tevenne,” he continued. “Now. But first,” he turned slightly, “medical.”
Keller stepped forward with a small team.
“This is Mr. Keller and his team.” He faced Keller. “Full vitals,” Tate said. “Screen them. Start prophylactic antivirals on everyone.”
Keller nodded. “Understood.” He moved in immediately.
“Masks stay on,” Keller instructed. “Open your mouth. Breathe.”
The crew complied first. The others followed, tension settling tightly across the group. Tate watched all of it. Every reaction. Every glance between them. No one was as calm as they wanted to appear. Good.
When Keller finished the first pass, Tate spoke again. “Once you are cleared medically, you will be moved to housing. You will get a shower, food, and a bed.”
Relief flickered across a few faces. He finished, “You will not be leaving Kasavoa for the time being.”
That landed. Tate let the silence stretch just long enough. Then he stepped forward again. “Now, we talk about Tevenne.”
The question came from one of the women, Carolyn from New York. “Is she… the girl who collapsed… is she going to be alright?” Her voice wavered despite her effort to hold it steady.
Tate did not soften the answer. “She died.”
The words settled hard across both groups. One of the South African men closed his eyes briefly. The American woman’s hand went to her mouth. No one tried to speak over it.
Tate watched the shift. They were listening now. He stepped forward, eyes moving across them, sorting.
Three male clients. One American. Two South African. Three women beside them. Same split. They were well dressed and used to control. They were not in control anymore.
Behind them, six crew. Four from the first boat. Two from the second. They were local transport. One group was from Victoria and the other from Arudon.
Tate separated it cleanly in his mind. “Start with you,” he said to the American man, Bradley. “How did you find Tevenne?”
“A referral,” Bradley said immediately. “Private network. High-net-worth clients.”
“Same for all of you?”
The two South African men nodded. “Yes.”
“Same broker?”
The men shared the name. It was a yes.
“Cost?”
The American man answered, “Two hundred thousand.”
One of the South African men spoke next, “Closer to three for us. With add-ons.”
“Medical guarantees?” Tate asked.
“Yes.”
“Define that.”
“Healthy delivery. Discretion. Legal protection.”
Tate let that sit. “And the girls?”
Carolyn, the American woman, shook her head quickly. “We were told they were vetted. Adults. Our surrogate, Daria, said she is twenty-three.” Her voice broke. “That is not what we saw.”
“No,” Tate said. “It is not.” He shifted his attention to the crew. “You. You run transport between the islands?”
One of the men nodded. “Yes. Contracted through normal channels. We provide transfers—clients, staff, supplies.”
“You knew what was happening on Tevenne?”
A man from the small boat answered firmly, “No. Not like that. Not until today.”
Another crewman added, “Phones are ringing nonstop. Every office. Everyone is calling for transport. Our schedule is running through the night. Transport to Victoria, Kasavoa or Arudon. They are desperate to get off the island.”
“Why?” Tate asked.
“Clients are running,” he said. “The sickness. They are paying big for transport anywhere.”
Tate absorbed that then looked back at the clients. “How many others on Tevenne?”
“Dozens,” one of the South African men, Johan, said. “Maybe more.”
“And the girls?”
Silence. Finally, one of the women answered, “Too many.”
Tate stepped back just enough to take them all in again. “You are going to write down everything. Names. Communications. Payment channels. Every detail.”
No hesitation now. They nodded.
“All of it.” Tate looked at the crew. “You too. Routes, manifests, who booked what and when. We will help you notify your employers to give them your location.”
They agreed—because he made them understand these details were important evidence.
Tate turned slightly toward the clinic. “Medical finishes first. Process the swabs. After that, we will take your statements.”
He looked back at the operators with him. “Load them up. Tent 2 for accommodations. No one leaves Kasavoa.”
PEDIATRIC WARD
After washing his hands, Ford pushed through the pediatric ward door.
Eira was standing beside the bed, still in a hospital gown, her hand wrapped tightly around Véronique’s small fingers.
Hunter was on the opposite side of the bed adjusting the settings on the machine next to Véronique.
Her face was covered by a huge mask. Her turtle was clutched tightly in her hands.
“What the hell are you doing out of bed?” he snapped at Eira.
The room went still. Eira turned slowly. “It’s Véronique…”
“You have a fever,” Ford cut in.
Hunter glanced at him but didn’t interrupt.
Ford stepped farther into the room, the loss of the young girl and the exhaustion and fear of the last twelve hours crashing straight through his restraint. “You’re supposed to be resting!”
Eira’s chin lifted slightly. “She needed me.”
Ford’s voice sharpened. “You can barely…” His eyes caught the monitor for Véronique’s oxygen. 89… 90… Her small chest rose fast under the mask. The anger shifted instantly.
“Jesus.” Ford stepped closer to the bed. “Hey, kiddo…”
Véronique didn’t move. For a second, Ford thought she was still asleep. He looked back at Eira, who was standing and swaying slightly. And the anger snapped loose again. “You pass out in here, and I swear I’ll?—”
“Ford,” came a weak, small voice. Véronique’s eyes opened, and she looked straight at him over the huge oxygen mask. “Ford.”
Everything in him shut down at once. He crouched beside the bed immediately. “Hey.”
Her tiny fingers lifted slightly from the blanket. “You’re loud.” Her fingers wrapped around one of his gloved fingers.
Hunter covered a smile.
Ford exhaled slowly, all the sharp edges leaving his voice. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.”
Véronique’s eyes drifted half closed again, but she kept watching him. “Don’t yell at Eira.”
Ford smiled at her. “I won’t anymore.”
Eira gave him a faint, feverish look.
Hunter stepped back slightly. Véronique’s breathing eased under the high-flow oxygen. The monitor ticked upward again. 92.
Ford looked at Hunter. “Do they both have the same strains?”
He nodded. “Véronique tested positive for A and B.”
Ford glanced toward Kavi’s empty bed across the room. “And Kavi?”
“Just A. I had him moved to the adjoining room. That kid is quite a negotiator. He cost me an entire set of Transformers.”
Ford absorbed that then looked back at Eira and shook his head. “Alright.” He pointed toward the corner of the room. “We can use that bed in the corner.”
Hunter raised an eyebrow. “For Eira?”
“Yes.”
Eira frowned weakly. “I’m fine.”
“Nope,” Ford said. “You’re not walking anywhere.” He looked back at Hunter. “Move the bed next to Véronique.”
Ford leaned against the rail beside Véronique, one hand resting lightly on the bed. Eira was still holding the girl’s fingers.