The Unlucky Turn by Mark Twain 72

People from the dark web usually despised cameras, yet aside from that brief staredown, ‘Dr. L’ remained perfectly composed. Her tone, phrasing, and reactions were too calm-far from the behavior of an ordinary person.

Callahan pressed the intercom again. “Tell her the patient will be delivered directly to her hotel tomorrow at ten in the morning.”

In the conference room, the man listened to the instructions in his earpiece and smiled at Leilani. “Dr. L, our boss has made the arrangements. The patient will be brought to your hotel tomorrow at 10:00 AM.”

“Agreed,” Leilani nodded.

The man handed her a key card. “This is for your suite. If you need anything, feel free to contact us.”

Leilani took the card and left without another word. Upon entering the hotel suite, she immediately swept the room. Only after confirming there were no bugs or cameras did she relax, peeling off her disguise mask and massaging her stiff face.

She walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the night view of Zamora. Her eyes grew serious. This employer was more cautious and mysterious than she had anticipated. Unlike Unlike the casual atmosphere back home, Zamora gave her a rare sense of unease.

Still, she just needed to cure the patient, take the money, and leave. The employer’s identity was none of her concern.

Her phone buzzed with a message from the mysterious client: [Tomorrow, Lexington Hotel, 10:00 AM. Don’t be late.]

The next morning, Leilani arrived at the designated suite at the Lexington Hotel promptly at ten. The room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn, and the air thick with the scent of disinfectant.

Lying on a hospital bed in the center of the room was a comatose man. He looked to be about thirty, with bronzed skin and a jagged scar across his brow bone. Bandages wrapped his chest and arm, stained with seeping blood.

Leilani approached to inspect his injuries. His body was a map of old scars-knife wounds, blunt force trauma… She gently lifted the edge of a bandage. It was a gunshot wound. The bullet had been removed, but the stitching was crude, and infection had set in. That would explain the coma.

Glancing at the calluses on his hands, typical of someone who handled guns and engaged in close-quarters combat, she realized his identity was anything but simple. But that was par

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for the course with dark web clients. Still, she wondered why they paid a hundred million to fly her out for a mere gunshot wound.

She checked his pulse, focusing her attention. Her expression turned grave. The blood loss from the gunshot was severe, but the real cause of the coma was a toxin on the bullet or

weapon.

Having identified the root cause, Leilani opened her medical kit, retrieving her silver needles, medicinal powders, and a specially formulated antidote pill.

In the monitoring room, Callahan watched intently. Leilani’s hands were steady, her needle placement precise and fluid. The decisiveness of her movements betrayed a high level of medical expertise.

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Cedella

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