Chapter 2 - SIXTY FEET UNDERGROUND
Roman’s medical unit was sixty feet beneath the financial district and smelled like damp concrete, bleach and money.
Maeve hated it instantly.
That helped.
Hatred made deficiencies easy to notice.
On her first morning, she walked through two steel doors, surveyed three treatment rooms and asked Roman one question.
“Did you build this from a discount catalog?”
Roman looked around.
“The equipment is new.”
“The equipment is garbage.”
A physician standing nearby looked offended.
Maeve ignored him.
She pointed.
“That monitor is two generations obsolete. Those trauma shears belong in a school nurse’s office. Half these cabinets aren’t anchored. If somebody crashes and I need that airway cart, the wheels are going to jam on your ridiculous carpet.”
Roman glanced down.
“You dislike the carpet.”
“I despise the carpet.”
He looked at his security chief.
“Remove it.”
The man nodded.
The physician stared.
Maeve continued walking.
Within four hours she had produced a thirty-two-page equipment list.
Roman did not argue once.
That made her suspicious.
“You’re spending a lot of money.”
“I have a lot of money.”
“That wasn’t my point.”
“It was mine.”
Maeve shoved another purchase order toward him.
“Portable ultrasound.”
Roman signed.
“Two.”
She looked at him.
“Why two?”
“In case one breaks.”
Maeve hated that this was reasonable.
By the end of the first week, the bunker looked less like a criminal afterthought and more like a trauma center.
Maeve established rules.
No weapons past the red line.
No yelling at clinical staff.
No preferential treatment by rank.
No questions about how injuries happened while treatment was underway.
Roman read the list.
“Rule four will annoy people.”
“Good.”
“What happens if someone breaks rule two?”
“They leave.”
“What if they’re bleeding?”
“I stop the bleeding first.”
Roman nodded.
“Fair.”
Maeve studied him.
“You really don’t argue about medical decisions.”
“I hired you so I wouldn’t have to.”
That answer stayed with her.
Roman Hayes was feared because he controlled people.
Yet inside the unit, he handed control to Maeve and never tried to take it back.
She did not trust that.
But she noticed it.
Two weeks after opening, the first real emergency arrived.
The steel doors slammed open shortly after midnight.
Two men carried in one of Roman’s drivers.
His shirt was dark with blood along the ribs.
Maeve moved.
“Table two.”
One of Roman’s physicians rushed in behind her.
“Blood pressure?”
“Dropping.”
“Mechanism?”
“Knife.”
Maeve cut the shirt away.
The wound itself was ugly but manageable.
The dangerous part was the man’s breathing.
Too fast.
Too shallow.
His skin was cooling.
Maeve listened to his chest.
“Breath sounds decreased on the left.”
The physician reached for medication.
Maeve looked at the vial.
Stopped.
“Where did that come from?”
“Supply cabinet.”
“Give me another.”
“We don’t have time.”
“Give me another vial.”
The doctor glared at her.
Roman stood behind the red line.
He said nothing.
The physician snapped, “I’m the doctor.”
Maeve held out her hand.
“And I run this room.”
The doctor looked toward Roman.
Roman’s expression was unreadable.
Maeve did not look away from the vial.
“Lot number.”
The physician checked.
Maeve felt something cold move through her stomach.
She recognized the packaging.
St. Jude’s.
Hospital-exclusive stock.
Not commercially distributed.
“What?”
Roman’s voice came from behind her.
Maeve looked at him.
“Where did you get these?”
“Supplier.”
“What supplier?”
“We’ll discuss it after.”
“No. We discuss it now.”
The physician cursed.
“Maeve, he’s crashing.”
She grabbed a different medication.
“Use this.”
They stabilized the patient.
Thirty frantic minutes later, his pressure improved.
Only then did Maeve walk toward Roman.
She still held the first vial.
“Office.”
Roman followed without complaint.
Maeve shut the door behind them and placed the vial on his desk.
“This belongs to St. Jude’s.”
Roman stared at it.
“So?”
“So hospitals track controlled inventory.”
“You think it was stolen.”
“I know it was stolen.”
Roman leaned back.
Maeve folded her arms.
“Who supplies your medications?”
“A broker.”
“Name.”
“No.”
Maeve stared at him.
“We had an agreement.”
“We did.”
“I control medical decisions.”
“This isn’t medical.”
“It became medical the second stolen medication entered my unit.”
Roman’s jaw tightened.
Maeve stepped closer.
“You told me Dr. Vance diverted narcotics.”
“Yes.”
“And now hospital stock from St. Jude’s magically appears underground?”
Roman’s expression changed.
Not guilt.
Recognition.
That frightened her more.
“You didn’t know.”
“No.”
Maeve believed him.
Roman picked up his phone.
“Get me procurement.”
Maeve grabbed the phone from his hand.
His eyes went cold.
Most people would have stepped back.
She did not.
“No disappearing supplier.”
“I wasn’t planning to make anyone disappear.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Maeve put the phone down.
“If this connects to Vance, I want evidence.”
Roman leaned forward.
“For what?”
“To clear my name.”
“You think the licensing board will apologize?”
“I don’t care.”
“You should.”
“I want my record corrected.”
Roman studied her.
Maeve’s voice lowered.
“I want him standing in a room where nobody can call me unstable, desperate or confused ever again.”
Roman was quiet.
Then he nodded.
“Evidence.”
“Legal evidence.”
His mouth twitched.
“You take all the fun out of things.”
“Try therapy.”
“I prefer expensive whiskey.”
“Obviously.”
Roman stood.
“I’ll trace the shipment.”
Maeve picked up the vial.
“I’m keeping this.”
“Evidence.”
“Yes.”
He walked toward the door, then paused.
“You were right tonight.”
“About what?”
“The medication.”
Maeve shrugged.
“That’s my job.”
Roman looked at her longer than necessary.
“No.”
“What?”
“You don’t treat it like a job.”
Before she could answer, he left.
Maeve stared at the closed door.
She hated that he saw things.
Not her face.
Not the performance.
The machinery underneath.
Three days later, Roman handed her a file.
No drama.
No speech.
He placed it on her desk beside a cup of terrible bunker coffee.
Maeve opened it.
Invoices.
Distribution logs.
Shipment numbers.
Shell companies.
One name appeared repeatedly.
Vance Medical Consulting.
Maeve stopped breathing.
Roman leaned against the wall.
“I told you.”
She turned another page.
There was Dr. Vance’s signature.
Her former supervisor.
The man who had ruined her.
Maeve sat very still.
Roman spoke softly.
“Say the word.”
She looked up.
“What word?”
“And I end him.”
There was no theatrical menace in Roman’s voice.
That made it worse.
Maeve closed the file.
“No.”
Roman’s eyes narrowed.
“I don’t want him dead.”
“I didn’t say dead.”
“You didn’t need to.”
She pushed the folder toward him.
“I want him alive.”
“Why?”
“Because dead men don’t lose medical licenses.”
Roman stared at her.
Maeve smiled for the first time since opening the file.
“I want him awake for every second of it.”
May you like
Roman slowly smiled back.
“Now that,” he said, “I understand.”
