Page 134 of Vital Signs
Before I could move, Misha was already in motion. His hand shot out, fingers closing around Nash's wrist. He applied pressure to a nerve point that made her gasp.
"That would be unwise," he said softly. "Now show me what you were reaching for."
Nash's face contorted with pain as Misha forced her hand back to the desk surface. A small silver button gleamed where her fingers had been heading. One push and security would flood the office.
"So predictable," Misha said, releasing her wrist but keeping his hand close enough to grab her again. "Now, let's try this conversation again. Without interruptions."
Nash stared at us, weighing options that had narrowed to a single point. "You expect me to believe you'll just walk away? That you don't want money or power or a seat at the table?"
"We want justice," I said simply. "For Tyler. For the other twenty-six people your trials killed. For the hundreds more who would have died if we hadn't stopped you."
Nash tilted her head. Her brow furrowed. "You really don't understand, do you? This isn't about profit. It's about progress. These trials will lead to treatments that save millions. What's the cost of a few marginal lives compared to that?"
"Be realistic," Nash said, leaning forward. "These people contribute nothing to society. Homeless addicts. Vagrants. Mental cases. Their lives were already over. At least through our research, they served a purpose."
I clenched my jaw. Nash spoke the same words Wright had used, the same justification for murder. Corporate office or clinic basement, the monsters wore different clothes but shared the same rotten core.
She studied my face, her eyes narrowing as she shifted strategies. "I see it now. You're an addict." Her voice changed, calculating and cold. "The track marks aren't fully healed, are they? Your hands still shake sometimes when you need a fix. That's why you care about this Graham person. Fellow junkie? Friend from rehab?"
She leaned forward again. "Tell me, what makes you think anyone will believe the word of an addict over the CEO of a publicly traded company? Do you know how easy it would be to dismiss everything you've said as drug-induced paranoia? How quickly your credibility evaporates the moment your history comes to light?"
I clenched my jaw as she continued, voice softening with false sympathy.
"You think you understand what happened to your friend. But addiction clouds judgment. Creates connections that aren't there. Makes you see conspiracies when it's just tragic coincidence. How many times have your drug-addled perceptions been wrong before?"
Every word was designed to undermine, to make me question myself. Six months ago, it might have worked. Might have sent me spiraling back to Jimmy McCoy with two hundred dollars and a death wish.
But she'd miscalculated. I wasn't the same man anymore, and my connection to Tyler had nothing to do with shared addiction. I was here because he was my friend, because we'd survived the streets together, because when they found his body, it was Misha who had prepared it in the morgue and noticed the signs that didn't add up.
"You're right about what I was," I said, meeting her gaze without flinching. "But you're wrong about what that means now. Tyler was my friend. We supported each other through the worst times. When he died, it wasn't an accident or an overdose. It was murder. Your murder through Wright."
"Your mistake," I said, my voice steadier than I'd expected, "is thinking my history makes me less dangerous to you. It makes me more dangerous. I know exactly what you did to Tyler because he told me what was happening in those trials before he died. And Misha saw the evidence on his body in the morgue."
Nash's expression flickered with something approaching uncertainty.
"We're not here because we were victims of your trials," I continued. "We're here because you took my friend, and Misha's professional expertise confirmed what happened. And now we're going to make sure it doesn't happen to anyone else."
Rage burned through me. This was the high I'd been chasing, purer than any drug.
"Your word," Misha said flatly. "Now."
Nash stared back. Her professional composure abandoned her. She recognized, perhaps for the first time, that we weren't men who cared about legal remedies or corporate politics. We'd come for blood.
"Fine," she said finally. "The trials end. Today. You have my word."
"Good," Misha said, rising from his chair. He pocketed the recorder and buttoned his jacket in one smooth motion. "We'll be watching. Remember that."
I stood, straightening my tie as I followed Misha toward the door. One glance between us. Victory licked at our heels, but hunger burned hotter. His promise was violence. Mine was survival. And we'd earned both.
Nash remained seated, her empire crumbling around her in invisible ruins.
"You won't get away with this," she called after us, voice cracking. "You have no idea the forces you're up against."
Misha paused, hand on the doorknob. "After everything we’ve been through to get this far, what makes you think we fear anything you could do to us?"
The question hung in the air, unanswered and unanswerable. Nash stared back, the truth sinking in. We weren't men who played by the rules. We weren't men who feared consequences.
We were men who had already decided her fate, and now simply waited to see if she would accept it.
