Chapter 4 - The Million-Dollar Rescue
Panic is a luxury I could not afford. I grabbed my phone and dialed the one number in my contacts reserved for worst-case scenarios—a private tactical extraction firm run by former military pilots that corporate executives used to evacuate personnel from war zones.
The dispatcher answered on the first ring.
“This is Damon Prescott. I am trapped at the Yellowstone Club lodge in Bozeman. I have a pediatric cardiac emergency. I need a medical evacuation helicopter equipped for neonatal life support to transport us to the Calder Institute in Denver immediately.”
“Mr. Prescott, the weather is catastrophic,” the dispatcher replied. “FAA has grounded all civilian rotary-wing aircraft. The wind shear alone—”
“I don’t care about civilian regulations,” I roared, my voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. “I am authorizing a ten-million-dollar wire transfer to your operating account right this second. Send your best pilots. If they get my daughter to Denver alive, I will double it. Do not tell me it is impossible.”
There was a pause. Then, the sound of keys clacking. “We have an augmented-weather Blackhawk thirty miles from your location. They are lifting off now. ETA fifteen minutes. Clear a landing zone.”
I dropped the phone. “Pack everything,” I told Cassandra.
Fifteen minutes later, the roar of twin turbine engines rattled the windows of the lodge. A massive, matte-black helicopter descended through the blinding snow, its spotlight cutting through the storm like a blade.
I carried Violet, wrapped tightly in three wool blankets, shielding her tiny face from the brutal wind as we ran toward the aircraft. Cassandra followed, carrying Luke. The flight medic hauled us inside, slamming the heavy door shut, instantly cutting off the roar of the storm.
The flight was a nightmare of turbulence. The helicopter dropped and shuddered violently as we navigated the storm fronts over the Rockies. But the medic hooked Violet up to a specialized ventilator, stabilizing her oxygen levels.
I sat beside her stretcher, holding her tiny, fragile hand. Her skin was so cold. I leaned down, pressing my forehead against hers. “Hold on, Violet,” I whispered into the deafening noise of the cabin. “Daddy is here. I’m right here. I will never, ever let you go.”
Two hours later, the Denver skyline appeared through the breaking clouds, lit up against the pre-dawn darkness like a field of stars. We landed directly on the reinforced roof of the Calder Institute. A trauma team was waiting on the helipad.
They rushed Violet onto a gurney and sprinted toward the surgical elevators. Cassandra and I ran right behind them, down the sterile white hallways, our boots squeaking on the linoleum.
As we reached the pediatric surgical wing, a figure stepped out of the waiting area, blocking our path.
It was Marcus. He looked disheveled, his tie undone, his eyes wild.
“Damon!” he shouted, stepping forward. “Arthur called me. You’re making a massive mistake. If you blow up this deal, the board will vote you out by Monday! You can’t just—”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
I didn't yell. I didn't argue. I simply walked forward, grabbed him by the lapels of his expensive custom suit, and slammed him violently against the hospital wall. Marcus gasped, his eyes wide with shock.
“My daughter is in that operating room,” I said, my voice a deadly, quiet rasp. “The daughter you tried to erase. The hospital you tried to destroy.”
Marcus looked past me, seeing Cassandra and Luke standing there. The color drained from his face completely.
The hospital security guards, flanked by two Denver police officers I had requested from the air, stepped forward. I released Marcus, letting him slump against the wall.
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“Marcus Vance,” I told the officers, adjusting my cuffs. “He is wanted for corporate embezzlement, fraud, and forgery. The federal warrants were signed an hour ago.”
As they dragged a screaming Marcus down the hallway, I turned my back on the man who had almost cost me everything, and walked through the double doors to wait for my little girl.
