Page 88 of Chase

“Now, strap yourself in, Mr. Chase. You’re in for an eventful day,” the man in charge advised, then slammed the door closed. On my other side, another brute sat bursting out of his suit. In his hand was a small syringe; he turned around in his fingers before removing the cover from the needle.

“What is that?” I hissed, and he grinned.

“Oblivion,” he told me, waving it around. “Now, hold still. It's time to go to sleep.” I pulled at the door handle, but not surprisingly, it was locked. I took a swing at him, the back of my hand colliding with his face, then I heard the click of a safety being removed from a gun.

“Stop,” the first man growled. “Take the sedative, or I’ll sedate you permanently.” He was turned in the passenger seat, his gun pointed at my forehead. I stopped struggling as the sharp metal pricked my skin, and everything went black.

Now, lying in the pitch black with no idea what is happening, I curse myself for not fighting. The sound of metal sliding against metal cuts through the silence. My instinct is to try to run, but it’s impossible in my current position. Instead, I lie like a sheep awaiting slaughter, wondering who the fuck is out there.

The creak of old rusted hinges as a door opens scrapes against what could be stone. Multiple people's booted footsteps can be heard, but among them is the distinct click of high heels. It’s hard to distinguish how many people are in the room as they move around in what feels like a haphazard manner.

Suddenly, light hits my face as whatever covers me is lifted from above. I screw my eyes closed, the unexpected brightness uncomfortable. Slowly, I reopen them to be met with blank air and only see a single strip light above. The ceiling of the room is covered in old, worn polystyrene tiles. They’re yellowed with age, and most have gauges on the surface. My captor's face appears above me, and he smiles down nastily.

“Good morning, Mr. Chase. I hope you had a good sleep.” He reaches in and begins to untie my bindings.

“Where the fuck am I?” I snarl.

“All in good time.” As he unties the final rope, I push myself up to sit. The pathetic sheet falls from my chest, and I pull it up around me. “Don’t worry, you’ve not got anything we haven’t seen before.”

It turns out that I am, in fact, lying in a coffin. Dark wood surrounds me, and an involuntary shiver scatters over my skin with the realization. I appear to be in the center of a derelict operating theater. The walls are now only tattered paintwork and fallen cement. Around the edge, there are still metal units housing boxes of equipment. Most of it looks ancient, however, a few more modern items sit to one side.

The men who stopped me by the river stand around the space. Each looks to be guarding a door. But to one side, I notice a familiar face—one I’m unhappy to see. Dr. Josephine Rivera doesn’t look at me. She focuses firmly on the floor while shuffling nervously from foot to foot. I open my mouth to ask a multitude of questions when more footsteps can be heard approaching, along with a strange squeak.

All attention in the room moves to the double swing doors where the doctor stands. The left hand door opens, and a dark-haired man walks in then steps to one side, holding it wide. A moment later, a wheelchair appears; an older, frail man sits bent over in the seat with another gigantic brute pushing him into the room. It takes me a moment to process who they are—two men I most definitely never planned to see again.

“Get up,” my captor snarls, pulling at my arm. I climb out of the coffin, landing on the floor and wrapping the sheet around my waist before approaching the wheelchair. A security guard appears on either side of me, ready to intervene if I decide to attack. Instead, I stare at the old man I have known all my life, a man who was meant to protect me but never did. Old, withered eyes rise up and meet mine.

“Hello, boy,” my father says. “It’s good to see you.”

“The feeling isn’t mutual.”

“Oh, I’m not happy to see you in the sense of catching up, but rather because of what you’ll be doing for me. You’re about to give your old man the ultimate gift.”

“I’ll give you fuck all.”

He laughs before spluttering violently. His companion moves over and rubs the old man’s back, then looks up, locking his stare with mine. In this moment I hate him as much as I hate my father.

“Do you really think you have a choice?” Aiden Marley replies with a smirk.

I step forward, wanting to take a swing at him. The two guards beside me grab an arm each and hold me steady. Marley looks no different from when I saw him earlier this year when he escaped at Harrison and Violet’s failed wedding. He’d absconded abroad and, the last I heard, was living the high life on his criminal funds.

My father, however, has been incarcerated since his capture. The two men worked together without our knowledge for years. Aiden was the man Violet ran away with at eighteen; he’s also who my father agreed to give his daughter to in return for his loyalty.

“When did you get out?” I ask my father, and his lips thin to a nasty smile.

“Who said I was released? The benefit of having a terminal illness, son, is they allow you hospital visits. All I needed was a few loyal men to ensure my escape. This man,” he boasts, signaling to Aiden, “is more loyal to me than any of my bastard children. He’s ensured that I’ve been kept comfortable and could escape when the time was right. It’s more than any of you did…”

I look down at the decrepit waste of a man before me. His skin is withered and yellow. In less than a year, he’s transformed from a strong and dangerous enemy into someone barely able to stand. But in his eyes, the vile look is still there, the twinkle of enjoyment in other people's pain.

“No doubt you’re wondering why you are here,” he says casually. He wriggles in his chair as if wanting to rise. Aiden goes to his side, taking his elbow and supporting his fragile frame. My father rises, wobbling unsteadily from foot to foot. He moves closer so we are almost nose to nose. The stale smell of unwashed teeth hits my nostrils, and my stomach clenches. “You’re going to save my life.” The words are blunt and direct. A grin spreads on his sunken face, and I narrow my eyes.

“Never,” I whispered angrily. “You’ll have to kill me before I ever save you.”

“That’s exactly what I intend to do, son. A life for a life. I need a liver; you’re the perfect man to supply it.” Aiden supports my father as he lowers down into his wheelchair again. The old man coughs once more, wrinkled hands moving slowly to his mouth before saliva spews out onto his lap. “And as for your brother, the knowledge that he didn’t save his baby brother will be sweet revenge. Russell always saw himself as the hero, albeit a deranged one.”

“It’s been a sudden diagnosis,” Aiden says, taking up the conversation. I stand silently, listening to him. “Your father has an unusual AB blood type that you and your brother share. It seemed the sensible course of action to locate a donor from the family. Biological sons are the best course of action.”

“Liver donation can come from a living donor,” the doctor says meekly, her voice pathetic and barely audible. “We only need to use part of his liver.”

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