Chapter 65 Adam
Adam
The kidney hit the floor with a wet crack, solution spreading across the tile. Raine staggered back against the wall, her face pale, but she didn’t break. She was strong. Stronger than I deserved.
I leveled my Glock at the men in lab coats. “Down. Now.”
They hit their knees, hands shaking, eyes darting to each other.
Blade kicked the clipboard closer to me. I scooped it up, scanning the notes scrawled across the paper. Dates. Codes. Medical shorthand. One line chilled me to the bone:
Shipment confirmed – 7 units viable. Preservation window: 72 hrs. Destination: classified.
Units. Human beings turned into cargo.
My grip tightened on the gun. “Who are you working for?”
The older one stammered, “We—we don’t know names. We just—just handle intake.”
“Don’t lie to me.” My voice was ice. “People don’t vanish off a ridge and end up in freezers without somebody calling the shots. So who?”
The younger man’s voice cracked. “We only get orders by encrypted email. Drop-off times. Inventory lists. That’s all.”
Blade crouched low beside him, knife glinting in the fluorescent light. “Then tell us where the shipments go.”
Silence.
The younger man’s gaze flicked to the clipboard, then to the far wall where a heavy steel door was set into the concrete. His mistake.
I stepped closer, gun raised. “Open it.”
His face went sheet-white. “No, you don’t—”
“Now.”
Blade yanked him up by the collar, shoved him toward the door. With trembling hands, the man fumbled out a keycard and swiped. The lock buzzed.
The steel door groaned open.
Cold air poured out, colder than the rest of the clinic.
Inside, the hum of refrigeration was louder. The light flickered over rows of stainless steel tables—each one holding sealed containers, tags, and more coolers stacked to the ceiling.
It wasn’t just one shipment. It was an entire supply chain.
Behind me, I heard Raine’s breath catch, ragged and sharp.
My chest burned with fury. These bastards had turned lives into inventory. Children, mothers, fathers—broken down into parts like machine scrap.
I shoved the man forward into the room. “Start talking. Now. Or I let Blade cut the truth out of you one piece at a time.”
The older one whimpered, sweat pouring down his temples. “You don’t understand. If we talk, we’re dead.”
I stepped closer, the barrel of my Glock pressing against his temple. “If you don’t talk, you’re already dead.”
The room went silent except for the hum of the freezers.
And I knew—one way or another—we were about to get answers.