Story code: ST-000115
Part 4: The Cost of Doing Business
Trey didn’t even see the matte-black handgun swing toward his face.
One second, he was standing between the corporate executive and the loan sharks, propelled entirely by a burning, desperate rage. The next, a blinding flash of white light exploded behind his eyes as the heavy steel barrel struck his temple.
“Cousin Marcus says your debt is closed,” Darius sneered.
Trey collapsed. His skull bounced against the cobblestones, the sickening impact echoing through the hotel driveway. The scalding adrenaline that had propped him up instantly evaporated, replaced by a devastating wave of agony. Warm, thick blood immediately began pooling beneath his cheek, matting his hair and seeping into the collar of his heavy wool valet uniform.
Through a rapidly narrowing tunnel of vision, Trey watched Darius snatch the thick, leather-bound wallet from the spilled designer purse. The two massive thugs didn’t bother looking back. The scuff of their steel-toed boots retreated into the shadows, followed by the slam of heavy car doors. The idling engine roared, tires screeching violently as the dark gray vehicle tore out of the pristine loading zone, melting away into the city traffic.
Trey tried to suck in a breath, but his chest seized. The violent tremors, momentarily suppressed by his anger, returned with terrifying ferocity. His spine arched involuntarily against the pavement. The withdrawal was peaking. Without the Valerium enzyme, his nervous system was rapidly short-circuiting. The gray spots in his vision rapidly darkened to pitch black.
Somewhere above him, a voice was screaming. It sounded thin, frantic, entirely stripped of its former corporate superiority.
“Help! Somebody help him! He’s dying!”
The chaotic noise of the city morphed into a high-pitched, piercing wail. Red and white lights began to violently strobe across the cobblestones, reflecting off the shattered screen of Chloe’s silver smartphone. The heavy thud of running boots vibrated through the ground.
“Sir? Can you hear me?” A new voice, urgent and calm, cut through the roaring static in Trey’s ears. Gloved hands gripped his shoulders, pressing him flat against the concrete. “Pulse is erratic. He’s seizing. What’s his medical history?”
Trey’s jaw was locked tight. He couldn’t force the words out. He was drowning in the darkness, his heart fluttering uselessly against his ribs like a trapped bird.
“Valerium!” The voice belonged to Chloe. She was hovering just out of Trey’s line of sight, her breath hitching wildly. “He said he needed Valerium! It’s a synthetic enzyme!”
“We don’t stock proprietary synthetics on the rig,” the paramedic shouted over the blaring sirens, his hands moving frantically over Trey’s chest. “If he’s in late-stage withdrawal, he’s going to enter cardiac arrest before we can push him through triage. We need to stabilize his heart now!”
The sound of tearing paper crackled nearby. Trey managed to crack one swollen eye open. Through the dizzying haze of strobe lights and his own blood, he saw Chloe Vance on her hands and knees. She was tearing into the matte-black corporate gift bags that had spilled from her purse. The heavy, expensive paper ripped apart under her frantic fingernails.
“Here!” she cried out, her voice cracking. “I have samples! Promotional samples from the acquisition board meeting. Please, just use these!”
A silver foil double helix flashed in the harsh red light of the ambulance.
The paramedic grabbed the small, glass auto-injector from Chloe’s trembling hand. “Hold his leg steady!”
Trey felt a sharp, cold pinch bite into his thigh, slicing right through the heavy wool of his trousers.
For three agonizing seconds, nothing happened. Then, a rush of ice-cold relief flooded Trey’s veins. It hit his system like a localized shockwave. The violent, bone-rattling spasms in his calves and spine abruptly stopped. His lungs expanded, drawing in a massive, ragged gasp of the humid night air. The deafening static in his ears finally began to dial down to a manageable hum.
“Heart rate is stabilizing,” the paramedic announced, exhaling a sharp breath of relief. “Let’s get him on the backboard. Easy now.”
As the medics strapped him to the bright yellow stretcher and hoisted him up, Trey’s vision finally cleared enough to take in the aftermath. The pristine VIP valet circle was a ruined crime scene of scattered belongings, torn corporate packaging, and smeared blood.
Trey slowly turned his heavy, aching head toward the stone pillar.
Chloe Vance was sitting squarely on the dirty concrete curb. She wasn’t checking her shattered phone or demanding the hotel manager. Her tailored crimson blazer was streaked with street grime, and a stark, bright smear of Trey’s blood stained the cuff of her crisp white blouse.
She sat shivering in the humid summer air, her knees pulled tight to her chest. In her lap lay the torn, empty box of the Valerium promotional sample. She was staring at the cardboard, and then she slowly raised her eyes to meet Trey’s across the driveway.
Trey didn’t look away. He let her see the swollen, bleeding bruise on his temple and the exhaustion radiating from his bones. He watched the horrified, hollow look deepen on her face. He could see the exact, crushing moment the math finally clicked behind her wide eyes. She wasn’t just looking at an invisible valet anymore. She was looking directly at the cost of doing business, realizing with chilling clarity that her eighty-million-dollar bonus was being paid for, drop by drop, with his life.