CRISPR - Chapter 2: Madison's Fate

Andrew Carmichael stared out through the boardroom window at the sprawling city below. He had rented a conference room on the seventy-third floor of this tower for just that reason. Everything looked so small down below, like an ant farm scurrying about. The Houston skyline stretched to the horizon in every direction—glass towers clustered downtown, the tangled sprawl of freeways, and beyond them the refinery stacks along the Ship Channel, their flare tips burning orange even in daylight. A haze hung over the city, part humidity and part petrochemical exhaust, softening the edges of everything past midtown.

It had cost a fortune to hold his meeting here instead of his own offices, but that didn't matter. A small price for the ability to convey influence and wealth over the people in the boardroom behind him.

He kept them waiting. Thirty seconds of silence, then forty, the weight of ten gazes pressing against his back. His secretary shifted in the corner—her third week, and she hadn't yet learned that her duty in meetings was to take notes, not speak.

"Sir? We are ready for you."

Andrew's jaw clenched. He checked his watch—a minute and five seconds would have to do—then turned.

Nine investors sat spaced around an oval table. The room smelled the way all rented corporate spaces did—new carpet off-gassing, the faintly metallic chill of over-processed air, and beneath it the competing colognes of people who had dressed to intimidate.

"I called this meeting," he said, "because I plan on taking CDM public in two months and—"

"It's a mistake." George Trinple didn't wait for the rest. Fat, balding, and smug. "We know why you asked us here, boy, and this visit is just a courtesy."

"I agree," Emily Perkins said.

Hers was the opinion Andrew most worried about swaying. Mid-fifties, sharp-eyed, with a reputation for going toe-to-toe with anyone. She'd bought her uncle's shares four months ago without Andrew's knowledge and had been building alliances against him ever since. She wanted his job. She wanted his company.

His molars ground together.

"CDM only has two drugs on the market," Emily said. "The flu vaccine contract is hemorrhaging money—vaccinations are down forty percent this season. Camlodien serves a niche population, and we have no pipeline to speak of. Against Pfizer's fifty-billion-dollar revenue, our eighty-seven million barely registers." She looked around the table, collecting nods like currency. "We'll crash. Get absorbed. Lose everything."

"We will become the first company to bring a successful gene therapy to commerce," Andrew said. "An entirely unclaimed market."

"Your therapy isn't market ready. You admitted so yourself."

He tried Camlodien—internal studies showing it four times more effective than competitors, the Factor V Leiden data he'd been holding back. Emily absorbed the surprise, recovered in seconds, and dismantled it with three questions about patient volume and market penetration. Every counterargument he raised, she stripped to the bone in front of the board.

When he suggested the brand was too important for generics, she pivoted to acquisition strategy. When he cited revenue projections, she quoted his own numbers back at him. Board members nodded along with her like synchronized pendulums.

"I'm not here to argue strategy," Andrew snapped. The words came out harsher than intended, and the expressions around the table soured. Emily had won them. Every one.

"We need to learn to walk before we can run," she said, savoring it.

"Walk?" Andrew spat. "You would have us crawling on our knees. You bought into this company to stifle it. To stifle me."

Emily rose to her feet. "Then maybe if you started making better decisions ..."

She let the implication hang. With fingers splayed on the table, she held his gaze until he looked away first. The room had shifted. This meeting should have solidified his position; instead, she'd dismantled it in minutes.

"I appreciate you taking the time to speak with us," Emily said, "but your arguments have not convinced me. CDM cannot go public right now. We need a few shake-ups and changes before we can reconvene."

Shake-ups that included a change of leadership.

Andrew's hands shook, so he stuck them into his pockets. He needed unanimous approval to move forward. Six investors, maybe eight, would fall in line with little effort, but Emily was a lost cause. He'd lost this battle.

He wouldn't lose the next.

"Let's table the discussion. Thank you all for coming."

He opened the door and ushered them out with empty platitudes and handshakes until only Emily and George remained, locked in private conversation.

"If you wouldn't mind," Andrew said, interrupting, "I'd love the opportunity to walk you through our facility this afternoon. You haven't received a personal tour yet."

She eyed him suspiciously. "I've made up my mind. On this and other things."

"Humor me. Wouldn't you find some value in visiting CDM's laboratories?"

"I suppose it would be worth understanding how things fit together." She paused. "Who knows what the future holds?"

"Of course." He bared his teeth in what passed for a smile. "You never know."

"Fine. I need to stop at my office first."

"I'll have a car pick you up in about an hour."

***

To prepare for his meeting with Emily, Andrew returned home. The River Oaks estate had been in his family for two generations—built on oil money his grandfather had pulled from the Permian Basin before pivoting to medical device patents. The neighborhood still breathed old Houston wealth: canopy oaks arching over the boulevards, wrought-iron gates half-hidden behind azalea hedges, the smell of fresh-cut St. Augustine grass baking in the afternoon heat, and the occasional gardener's truck idling in a driveway that cost more than most people's houses. That inheritance had bankrolled CDM's founding and kept Andrew living at a standard his pharmaceutical company's balance sheet couldn't yet justify. He had spoken with Monroe Fink about his next steps, but already, he had doubts. Maybe he had taken her insults too personally and had let her get under his skin.

It was too late to go back now. Instead, he changed clothes and set off to meet the caterer for his upcoming gala. He had scheduled the charity dinner party over the weekend as a celebratory gesture for taking the company wide.

Probably, he should cancel the gala, but his pulse still hammered from the boardroom, and every rational thought collapsed under the echo of Emily's patronizing tone. At this point in time, he considered the event still on, and he also intended to have his congratulatory dinner.

"Where is the caterer?" he asked his butler, once he had finished changing.

"The basement," the man said.

"What? Why would she go down there?" Andrew rushed below stairs.

The butler hurried to catch up. "You said to give her full access."

Andrew cursed in frustration. Why, oh why, did everyone surrounding him prove incompetent?

He headed along the underground hall, the cool air carrying the faint mustiness of below-ground spaces despite the industrial ventilation. The lights shone, and a woman stood a short way further on.

"You shouldn't have come down here," Andrew said. "The gala takes place upstairs in the ballroom and maybe the dining room and—"

"Do you put all of your computers in prison?" The woman turned to face him.

"Excuse me?" His voice came out flat, controlled.

A smirk twisted her face, but upon seeing his expression, it turned into a frown. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize … I just wanted to see the property."

"This doesn't form any part of what you need to see."

"Again, I'm terribly sorry."

"What did you mean about prisons?"

She turned and pointed at his server, surrounded by a cage that looked somewhat like a prison.

"I meant it as a joke," she muttered.

Andrew blew out a breath and forced himself to relax. "Apologies, I just … I've had a rough day."

"I understand."

"It's called a Faraday cage. It blocks electronic signals."

Curiosity crossed her face. "Why?"

"I like having my secrets," he said. "And I don't enjoy when people snoop around."

She returned the smile. "Of course. I'm terribly sorry. It won't happen again."

"Think nothing of it."

"Well, everything seems in order. I'll set up tomorrow for the party and get everything in line. What time would you like to serve dinner?"

"Seven," he said. "No, wait, seven-thirty. I want to make sure everyone has a chance to show up."

"Of course," she said. "You have a lovely home, Mr. Carmichael. Thank you so much for the opportunity to help you with this event." Then she turned and headed for the exit.

Andrew watched her leave. He'd had her vetted before the booking—references checked, background clean. She'd seen the cage, heard the word Faraday, and accepted it without a flicker of understanding. Not a threat.

Then he glared at his butler. "No one is permitted down here, understood?"

The butler nodded.

"Next time, I won't be as forgiving."

He checked his server to make sure nothing had been tampered with—the Faraday cage hummed, warm-plastic electronics smell thick in the enclosed space—and then headed back out of the basement. He had a most important meeting to get to.

But first, he made a detour.

A secondary corridor branched off from the main basement hall, leading to a reinforced door that the caterer had thankfully not discovered. Andrew punched in the access code and slipped inside.

The room beyond had been designed to look like a child's bedroom—blue walls, a bookshelf stocked with age-appropriate novels, a desk with colored pencils and drawing paper. UV lights provided a semblance of natural daylight. The only thing missing was a window. Antiseptic and stale recycled air—no amount of cheerful wallpaper could drive out either smell.

Jason Blake sat on the edge of his bed, a half-finished drawing abandoned on his lap. He looked up when Andrew entered, and his small hands clenched into fists.

"How are you feeling today?" Andrew asked, keeping his voice pleasant.

The boy didn't answer. His jaw set in a stubborn line, and his eyes—brown like his father's—burned with a defiance that was both irritating and impressive. Nine years old, and already he'd learned not to give his captor the satisfaction of a response.

"The silent treatment again." Andrew sighed. "You know, your father is working very hard to get you back. Perhaps if you cooperated with our tests, we could speed up the process."

"You're lying." Jason's voice came out hoarse from disuse, but steady. "You said that last week. And the week before."

"Did I?"

"I'm not stupid." The boy's chin lifted. "The stuff you put in me—it hurts."

Andrew's gaze dropped to the catheter site just above Jason's shirt collar—the entry point for their regular treatments. The skin around it had gone red and slightly puckered. He'd have Monroe check it later.

"Medicine sometimes hurts," Andrew said. He crouched so that his eyes were level with the boy's. "What we're doing here is going to matter. Your blood carries something that could rewrite the mistakes nature makes in children's DNA—errors that kill people before they're old enough to understand why. I know you don't care about that right now."

He stood. No point in explaining further. The boy was nine.

"I don't want to save anyone." Jason's voice cracked, and for a moment, the brave mask slipped—a nine-year-old who'd been ripped from his life and held in a basement for months. "I want to go home. I want my dad."

"Soon," Andrew said. The lie tasted wrong in his throat.

"That's what you always say." Jason looked down at his drawing. It depicted a house—crude and childish, but recognizable. A stick figure stood in front of it, and next to the figure, Jason had written "DAD" in wobbly letters.

Andrew's sister had drawn pictures like that. Stick figures of their parents, a house they'd never go back to. She'd been nineteen when the genetic heart defect killed her. Every compromise Andrew had made, every line crossed, traced back to that same hospital room—the smell of antiseptic and fresh flowers rotting in a vase, the sound of a monitor flatting out. He had not been able to fix her. He was going to fix it for everyone else.

He looked away from the drawing.

"Finish it," Andrew said, heading for the door. "Dr. Monroe will be by later to check on you."

"I hate you." Jason's voice was barely a whisper.

Andrew paused. "I know," he said, quieter than he'd intended. Then he left, locking the door behind him.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Andrew pulled it out and read the message—a terse update from a disposable number he recognized. Jeff Tripp. The fixer he'd contracted to handle the Delaware situation had sent a single line: Ship neutralized. Asset destroyed. Caldwell eliminated.

Andrew exhaled through his nose. Three weeks ago, Wallace Blake had arranged for CDM cargo to be rerouted and hired a mercenary named Malcolm Caldwell to destroy it at sea—an act of petty sabotage from a desperate father trying to hurt the company that held his son. Andrew couldn't allow that kind of exposure. The cargo manifest alone would have raised questions he wasn't prepared to answer. So he'd called Tripp—a fixer he'd used twice before for problems that required a certain moral flexibility—and told him to make the problem disappear.

Tripp had assured him the ambush was airtight. The mercenary and his team would be neutralized, the cargo situation contained, and no trail would lead back to CDM. Clean, professional, final. The kind of work Tripp had built his reputation on.

Andrew typed a reply: Confirmed. Destroy the phone. No further contact.

He deleted the message thread, pocketed the phone, and straightened his jacket. One problem handled. Wallace's little act of rebellion had been crushed before it could draw attention to CDM's operations. The old man would learn soon enough that fighting Andrew Carmichael was like throwing stones at a hurricane.

Andrew headed upstairs. He had a most important meeting to get to.