Page 102 of Borrowed Pain
Matthew assembled his medical supplies with emergency room precision. "I can provide immediate pharmaceutical countermeasures if needed, but we'll need hospital-level supportive care for full recovery."
"Hospital administration has agreed to provide full medical support," Agent Sadler said. "They're treating this as a medical emergency with federal oversight. The estimated timeline for facility breach is twenty minutes."
5:19 PM. After over three hours of pharmaceutical torture, Miles would finally have a professional rescue operation instead of his family desperately trying to fight embedded bureaucracy.
My phone rang with a direct call. It was Victoria, speaking privately while maintaining the conference connection.
"Ashcroft, I need you to understand something. When we go into that facility, we're not only extracting Dr. McCabe, but we're also exposing criminal operations with federal protection and institutional legitimacy. There could be significant resistance."
"What kind of resistance?"
"Hospital staff who still believe they're protecting legitimate research. Security personnel following previous authorization protocols. Medical professionals who think we're interfering with patient care." She paused. "Some good people will be very confused about which side they should support."
"How do we handle that?"
"I'm going to keep Dr. Humphries in contact to provide medical authority, and you will provide any needed investigative context."
Everyone in the warehouse prepared for the coordinated rescue operation. Through Dorian's monitors, Miles's GPS signal remained stationary in basement isolation.
On the conference call, I said, "Agent Sadler, we're ready."
"Then let's go get your partner back."
Chapter twenty-one
Miles
The pharmaceutical haze lifted slightly, like fog burning off Puget Sound, leaving me hyperaware of mechanical sounds—the snap of latex gloves, the whisper of rubber wheels against polished floor. Harrow stood beside my chair, no longer the concerned colleague who'd offered revolutionary therapy. Her posture had shifted, shoulders squared like a general reviewing conquered territory.
"Dr. McCabe." She peeled off her gloves with surgical precision. "You've been studying my life's work for years. Every trauma protocol you learned in graduate school builds on foundations I established."
My tongue felt thick, words emerging in slow motion. "That's... wrong. The research spans decades, multiple institutions—"
"Multiple institutions I advised." Her smile was sharp. "I didn't steal legitimate research and corrupt it. I rebuilt the specialty in the image of my work."
The restraints bit into my wrists as I tried to process her words. She wasn't a researcher gone rogue—she was an architect of systematic trauma exploitation, dressed up as healing science.
"Why?" The question scraped my throat raw.
"Because trauma is the most valuable psychological state. Survivors will pay anything, submit to anything, believe anything if you promise them relief." She consulted her tablet. "And therapists like you are ideal recruits."
Two technicians entered with a gurney. One began disconnecting my monitors while the other prepared restraints designed for transport.
"We're relocating to a more secure environment," Harrow said. "Hospital administration becomes anxious about extended protocols. Too many concerned family members asking questions." She instructed the technicians, "Hold him Level Two—keep him responsive for the interview."
They transferred me with mechanical precision. The gurney's padding smelled of industrial disinfectant and aging vinyl.
"Help." I tried to make my voice carry as we rolled through corridors lined with legitimate medical equipment. "Someone help me."
The words emerged slurred and indistinct. A nurse glanced our way, concern flickering across her face before a technician explained something about research protocols and patient confidentiality. She nodded with professional understanding.
We passed physicians discussing treatment plans, residents clutching foam coffee cups, and cleaning staff mopping floors. None of them knew. Their institution protected Harrow's work, and federal oversight legitimized it.
"Your colleagues see a pioneering researcher conducting breakthrough trauma therapy," Harrow said, reading my expression. "They see everything except what's actually happening."
I struggled, but managed to get my questions out in a language Harrow understood. "Where, exactly, is this happening? Most of these protocols—they don't exist in any journal or registry. What facility would sign off on this?"
"Protocols like mine aren't bound to the same paperwork you worship. IRBs are for show. The real work happens under federal exemptions—classified designations, sealed contracts, facilities where oversight doesn't reach."
