Chapter 5 - The Extraction at the Clinic
The rain is coming down in sheets, turning the Chicago streets into a slick, glistening maze of neon reflections and towering skyscrapers.
My armored black Maybach cuts through the midnight traffic with effortless power, escorted by two SUV units carrying eight of my best security specialists. We pull up directly in front of the Sterling Medical Institute on Michigan Avenue—a sleek, multi-story glass facility where Dr. Julian Sterling dispenses high-end concierge medicine to Chicago’s elite.
The building is dark, closed for the night. But a single yellow light glows softly on the third-floor executive balcony.
“Marcus, status,” I speak into the encrypted comms unit clipped to my collar as I step out of the car into the freezing rain, pulling my black overcoat tight around my neck.
“Perimeter is secure, boss,” Marcus’s voice crackles back through the earpiece. “Alpha team entered through the service loading dock three minutes ago. No alarms tripped. Sterling is currently in his private office packing his physical files and bearer bond certificates into a leather briefcase.”
“Hold your position,” I command. “I want to walk in alone.”
“Victor, that’s a security risk—”
“He’s a sixty-year-old physician, Marcus. Not a cartel hitman. Open the side security door for me.”
A second later, a heavy metal service door clicks open with a pneumatic hiss. I step inside the sterile, dimly lit interior of the clinic, the rubber soles of my shoes making no sound against the polished tile floors.
I take the private elevator up to the third floor. The digital display numbers tick upward in silence: 1, 2, 3.
Ding.
The elevator doors slide open. I step out into a quiet, carpeted hallway lined with expensive medical art and framed degrees from Johns Hopkins and Harvard.
At the end of the hall, the heavy mahogany double doors to Dr. Sterling’s private office are cracked open an inch. A warm bar of yellow light spills out onto the carpet, accompanied by the rustling sound of paper being shoved rapidly into a leather briefcase.
I walk down the hallway with slow, measured, deliberate steps.
“Damn it... damn it...” I hear Dr. Sterling muttering frantically to himself inside the office. “Just need thirty more minutes to hit the airstrip...”
I reach the doorway, raise my right hand, and give the heavy wood a single, hard shove with my palm.
BANG.
The doors swing wide open, crashing against the interior bookshelves with a resounding thud.
Dr. Julian Sterling—immaculately dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, silver hair neatly combed back, gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose—stops dead in his tracks. He is standing behind his massive mahogany desk, one hand clutching a thick stack of bearer bond certificates, the other hovering over an open leather briefcase.
He looks up, and the color drains instantly from his face. His mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for air.
“V-Victor...?” Dr. Sterling stammers, his voice pitching up in sheer panic. “What... what are you doing here? I thought you were in London!”
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I walk slowly into the office, my hands sliding casually into the pockets of my black overcoat. The silence in the room is heavy, thick with the smell of expensive cologne and mortal terror.
“London can wait, Julian,” I say softly, my voice cutting through the quiet like a razor blade. “Especially when I have a very urgent medical question that only my favorite personal physician can answer.”
