Chapter 217
Chapter 217:
Crawford ended the call and looked at the director with a flat, unhurried stare.
Ninety seconds later, the director’s desk phone erupted. He snatched it up, and as he listened, the color drained from his face completely.
“Yes — yes, sir. Immediately.” He put the receiver down with a trembling hand.
Three minutes after that, the security door buzzed open. The director handed June a freshly printed file containing the names and addresses of ten critically ill, impoverished patients.
June pressed the file against her chest. A complicated knot of gratitude and disbelief turned in her stomach. Her science hadn’t been enough. Her ethical arguments hadn’t moved anyone. It had taken Crawford’s raw, calculated power to break through the wall in minutes.
They walked back to the SUV in silence.
June buckled her seatbelt and looked at him. “Thank you p>
Crawford put the car in drive, his eyes on the rain-slicked exit ramp.
ѕ𝘁𝘰𝗋𝗂𝗲𝗌 уou 𝘄o𝗇’t p𝘶𝗍 𝖽о𝘸ո 𝘰𝗇
“Rules are designed to paralyze ordinary people, June,” he said, his voice a quiet rumble. “I am the man who writes the rules. And that power is yours to use — whenever you need it p>
June looked away from his profile and opened the file.
“First address,” she said, her voice hardening. “The Miller residence. Deep Brooklyn p>
The engine growled. The SUV shot out of the garage and into the storm.
The armored SUV crossed the bridge, descending into the darkest and most neglected depths of Brooklyn.
Rain lashed against the windshield. The streets here were narrow, choked with overflowing dumpsters and lined with crumbling brick buildings covered in aggressive gang graffiti.
Crawford parked the massive vehicle in front of a dilapidated five-story tenement building. The smell of wet garbage and stale urine seeped through the car’s ventilation system.
Crawford stepped out first. He opened an umbrella, walked around to June’s side, and pulled her door open. As she stepped out, his large hand settled naturally against her lower back, drawing her flush against his side. He shielded her from the rain and positioned his body between her and a group of hostile-looking men loitering on the corner.
They walked into the dark, foul-smelling lobby and climbed five flights of rotting, creaking wooden stairs.
June stopped in front of apartment 5B. The paint was peeling from the door in large, curling strips.
She knocked firmly.
A long silence followed. Finally, the deadbolt clicked. The door opened two inches, held back by a heavy chain lock. An elderly white woman peered out through the gap — deep, exhausted wrinkles carved into her face, her eyes wide with terror.
“Mrs. Miller?” June asked, her voice soft and gentle. “I am Dr. Erickson from Apex Bio. I was the lead researcher when your husband participated in our clinical trial. His subject number was 409-B p>
At the mention of that specific number, the extreme paranoia in Mrs. Miller’s eyes eased slightly. Her trembling hands unlatched the chain, and she pulled the door open.