Chapter 8 - THE POISONED BLOOD
“What are you talking about?” Dominic demanded, staring at me.
I looked at the yellowed pathology report in my trembling hands.
“Twenty-three years ago, someone began administering a micro-dose of a paralytic agent into your bloodstream. It’s designed to slowly degrade your respiratory drive. That’s why you stop breathing at night. That’s why the CPAP machine is failing you. Your brain is forgetting how to tell your lungs to work.”
Dominic turned his fierce gaze to Dr. Kane.
“You poisoned me.”
Dr. Kane let out a dry, rattling laugh.
“I didn’t poison you, Dominic.”
Kane pointed a scarred finger at the wheelchair.
“Your father did.”
The silence in the bunker was absolute.
“You’re lying,” Dominic snarled.
“Am I?” Kane asked softly. “Your father knew you were getting too powerful. You were questioning his methods. You were protecting Robert. He wanted you weak, dependent, and eventually, dead. He ordered me to formulate the toxin.”
Dominic stared at his frail mother in the wheelchair.
“Is it true, Ma?”
His mother closed her eyes, tears streaming down her face.
“Yes, Dominic. Your father was a monster. When Robert found out about the toxin, Kane killed him. And when you burned the clinic, Kane took me to punish us all.”
Anthony stepped forward, his fists clenched.
“Why the elaborate plot with the CPAP machine for me, then? Why not just poison me too?”
Kane smiled.
“Because a heart condition is natural. A sudden failure of respiratory equipment is a tragedy. But two poisonings in one family? That invites the police. I wanted the Russo line extinguished quietly. Painfully.”
Kane raised the detonator.
“And now, it ends loudly.”
“Wait!” I shouted.
I wasn't a soldier. I wasn't a mafia boss.
But I was a nurse. And I know human anatomy.
I looked at Kane’s hand. The one holding the detonator.
It was shaking.
Not from anger. From intention tremor.
I looked at his milky left eye, then at the slight drag of his left foot when he had stepped into the light.
“You have late-stage neurological damage,” I said, stepping between him and Dominic.
Kane’s good eye narrowed. “Shut up.”
“The smoke inhalation from the fire didn't just burn your skin,” I pushed forward. “It caused hypoxic brain injury. You’ve been self-medicating with steroids for years, haven’t you? That’s why you need this medical bunker.”
Kane’s thumb twitched on the button.
“I said shut up!”
“You’re dying, Dr. Kane,” I said softly. “Your motor functions are failing. You can barely hold that detonator.”
Dominic saw the opening.
He didn't draw his gun. He moved with the terrifying speed of a man protecting his family.
Dominic lunged.
Not at Kane. At the detonator.
He grabbed Kane’s hand, forcing the man's thumb backward, away from the trigger.
Anthony tackled Kane to the floor. The detonator skittered across the concrete.
The security chief dove for it, securing the switch.
Kane thrashed on the ground, but Anthony held him down, pressing a knee into the doctor’s chest.
Dominic didn’t look at the man who had tormented his family for decades.
He dropped to his knees beside his mother’s wheelchair.
He carefully inspected the wiring beneath her seat.
“It’s a simple pressure switch,” Dominic said, his hands steady. “Ma, don’t move.”
He pulled a small pair of wire cutters from the security chief’s belt.
He looked at his mother.
“I’m taking you home, Ma.”
He snipped the blue wire.
May you like
The small red light on the explosive charge blinked once.
And went dark.
