CRISPR - Chapter 2: Madison's Fate

Houston, Texas

1

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, and it proved highly impractical for a business expense, but that didn't matter. It was a small price to pay for the ability to convey his influence and wealth over the other people in the boardroom with him.

"Um … sir?"

The interruption came from behind and to his left, out of the mouth of his newest secretary in a series of unfortunate hires. He grimaced in annoyance but didn't answer her: he reckoned she wouldn't break the streak.

The eyes of all his investors bored into his back, as well as the occasional whisper as they attempted to judge his intentions. He imagined that he must cut a regal figure standing here, tall and handsome in his tailored navy suit, and hair perfectly coifed as he posed by the window.

Thus far, he'd kept them waiting in their well-cushioned chairs for a full thirty seconds. He could practically taste their anxiety. They reeked of nervousness and weakness underneath their expensive attire and affectations. His inattention produced the desired impact.

Keep them guessing. Carmichael used silence as a tool to establish control over the conversation. He needed to oversee this conversation: his project had reached a critical junction. A misspoken word or second-guessed intention could bring his entire house of cards crumbling down around him.

He checked his watch: another twenty seconds and he would begin.

The trick of using a pause before speaking he had learned from studying the great negotiators and executives who had come before him. The person who spoke first invariably lost.

The weight of ten gazes pressed against Andrew's back, each second of silence amplifying their collective scrutiny. He couldn't imagine standing in front of hundreds of thousands at a podium and counting off a full minute before speaking.

"Sir? We are ready for you."

Andrew's jaw clenched at the repeated interruption. This secretary had turned out much like her predecessors, and Carmichael chided himself for selecting yet another timid little girl.

She appeared a docile creature who refused to look him in the eyes when he spoke, so she'd struck him as the perfect help. He liked that about her because she understood that their relationship was not one of equality. He was the boss, she the help.

She was new, though, and he hadn't yet had "the talk" with her about how he did business. In meetings, her duty was to take notes and document transactions, but it was never, ever, to speak without his consent. Moreover, he would not allow her to question his decisions.

Once this meeting ended, he would have to reconsider keeping her around.

He glanced at his watch again: a minute and five seconds of silence would have to do. Andrew drew a steadying breath, plastered on his business smile, and turned to face the board of investors.

Nine in total, plus his secretary, sitting 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. Six men and four women, all dressed to the nines. Fen Wu, his secretary, sat in the rear corner of the room, an iPad in hand. She shook in her seat when he surveyed her, and shrank under his gaze.

"Thank you, Fen."

Andrew smiled at the investors. He reminded himself that when he spoke, he must address the women as often as the men. The last thing he needed was for anyone else to lie to a reporter that he was a misogynist.

CDM Pharmaceuticals didn't need any further negative publicity just now.

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

"It's a mistake," George Trinple said. A fat and balding man, he had loose jowls and saggy skin. "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 in this meeting. Shapely and attractive for a woman in her mid-fifties, she had a reputation in the industry for going toe-to-toe with anyone. Full of strong opinions, she held a no-nonsense attitude.

His molars ground together at the sound of her voice.

"If we go public right now, then after only a few weeks of being live, our stock prices will plummet," she said. "CDM only has two drugs on the market, and Camlodien is only six months old—still in its infancy. No one in the market will bet on us. We'll crash, and then we'll get absorbed into one of the big three pharmaceutical companies and lose everything for which we've fought."

"On the contrary, I intend to do the absorbing," Andrew said. "By the end of the fiscal year, we will—"

"In what reality? In the one we live in, CDM remains too weak to stand on its own."

"I don't appreciate the interruption, Emily. You've missed the point entirely. This isn't about Camlodien but our other offerings. We will become the first company to bring a successful gene therapy to commerce. A thing both practical and affordable in an entirely unclaimed market."

He stopped himself from saying the rest—that CDM wouldn't merely treat genetic disease but rewrite the fundamental code that caused it. These investors couldn't see that far ahead.

Emily shook her head. "Your therapy isn't market ready. You admitted so yourself. And, at best, the initial offering will solve a problem that affects one in five thousand people. Most won't even seek treatment, let alone something untested and unproven."

"Correct, in that the trials for this particular gene therapy remain ongoing, but you have it wrong about the viability of my company. We received this year's contract to create and distribute the latest flu vaccine, which is due to begin shipment in a few weeks."

Emily remained argumentative, "The flu has proven tame this season. It is likely we won't even recuperate our initial investment."

"I invested in the vaccine for public relations and relationship building more than profit or revenue."

"Oh, so you're in the charity business now? How will that line our pocketbooks?"

"It isn't about the bottom line—"

"It is clear that the pieces of this puzzle are not aligned right now to take the company public."

Andrew's jaw clenched as board members nodded along with Emily, their heads bobbing in synchronized agreement.

"I've heard many reports that this year's flu will be significantly worse than most," he said, deviating back to the vaccine. "We will stay poised to turn a profit from it as well as build goodwill."

"It hasn't happened yet, and the season is halfway over. Unless something changes fast, we're looking at one of the tamest flu seasons in the last thirty years. Vaccinations are down almost forty percent year over year."

"Florida got hit the hardest, and it is mostly finished with the flue," George said, grinning smugly. "This morning, on the news, I heard that the number of reported cases has dropped, and the cases reported are mild. Emily has it right: this has turned into a terrible vaccination season, and there's no way we'll turn a profit."

"People just aren't scared," Andrew said, nodding. "And I agree that without people getting sick it could be an abysmal season—"

"I don't think that people not getting sick counts as an abysmal season," Emily said with a small laugh. "But the point still stands. If anything, that contract was bad for the company."

Andrew shook his head, "It remains revenue and profit just for manufacturing the vaccine, and that has resulted in company growth even if no payouts."

"It didn't bring enough to translate into profit, and certainly not enough to equal market share. We know the numbers, Andy, and they don't look good. If anything, this setback should delay our public offerings, not speed it up."

"You forget that we also have an exclusive patent for Camlodien for the next seven years."

"What about it? It provides a useful anticoagulant," Emily said, frowning, "but just having one solid pharmaceutical on the market won't earn enough to carry an entire company. Our competitors have portfolios of twenty to thirty drugs. We don't even have another medicine on a market path yet."

The comparison stung. Against Pfizer's fifty-billion-dollar annual revenue or even mid-tier biotechs like Vertex and BioMarin, CDM's eighty-seven million—most of it from the vaccine contract and Camlodien's early prescription sales—barely registered as a competitor. They were a startup trying to compete in a landscape dominated by companies that spent more on lobbying than CDM earned in a fiscal year.

"What if Camlodien proves enough to carry us, though? What if it is enough to solidify our entire future?"

Andrew's question hung in the air as everyone around the table exchanged confused glances.

"Camlodien doesn't require patients to go in for regular blood tests like Warfarin or Heparin. In many trials, it has shown itself up to four times as effective as its competitors with fewer negative side effects."

His words surprised them, and they exchanged more looks. Even Emily appeared caught off-guard by the possibilities, and it took her a moment to recover. "What trials are those?"

"Internal studies for patients with Factor V Leiden thrombophilia."

"You haven't told us about those."

"Nothing to tell before now."

Emily wore a chagrined expression, "What are our patient numbers? H0w much usage could we expect out of it?"

"Five percent Caucasians and around two percent international."

"How many seek treatment?"

"Lower, but by all indications, the number is growing—"

"So, it isn't a condition that many people bother to treat outside of necessity, and there are direct market competitors with more brand recognition?"

Andrew's fingers curled against his thigh. "Inferior competitors."

"Yet, more established. Why haven't we trialed new drugs that treat conditions like heart disease or diabetes? We could hit considerably higher acquisition numbers even in the over-saturated market than something with a five percent population coverage rate."

"Our price point and cost of acquisition would be lower on a drug like that."

"Yes, but we would make up for it in volume. Why not print a few generics?"

"And soil the brand? CDM isn't—"

"It could become an excellent source of revenue prospects and solidify our portfolio while—"

"I'm not here to argue strategy," Andrew said. "That is not why I held this meeting." The words came out harsher than intended, and the expressions of many in the room soured. They had taken Emily's side. The woman had won the hearts and minds of the board.

Puissants, all of them.

"I agree that the drug has value," Emily said, savoring her victory, "but it comes nowhere near a game changer. We need to expand, make a few targeted acquisitions, and then consider taking the company wide. We need to learn to walk before we can run."

"Walk? You would have us crawling on our knees if you could, wouldn't you?" Andrew spat out the words.

A few audible gasps sounded, but Andrew didn't care. He pressed on, "You bought out your uncle's share of CDM Pharmaceuticals not because you wanted to help grow my business, but because you wanted to stifle it. You wanted to stifle me."

Rattled, Emily shot to her feet. "I didn't want to stifle anything. I am offended by the accusation."

"The truth is never offensive. All you've done is question my decisions and leadership at every turn."

"Then maybe if you started making better decisions …"

With fingers splayed on the table, she didn't finish the statement; just let the implication hang in the air. Andrew understood that she wanted to replace him as CEO of his company and worked actively to build an alliance with the other board members against him. She wanted his job, which meant she sought to take his company out from under him.

His company.

This meeting should have solidified his position of overseeing CDM, and in a matter of minutes, she had managed to weaken and jeopardize his company's future. If they didn't take the company wide during the required window, then all his hard work would come to naught.

Never would he have sold her an investment share of CDM, but her uncle hadn't told Andrew that he'd fallen on hard times. That had happened four months ago. Andrew would have helped bail him out, or at least bought up the shares. Instead, Andrew had ended up stuck with this predatory woman who wanted everything he had.

"In any case," Emily said, retaking her seat, "supplies of Camlodien have remained limited, haven't they?"

"Artificially." Andrew waved a dismissive hand in the air. "We have a surplus in reserves, but keeping our public supply low helps to inflate the cost and perceived value."

"If we have the drug, we should sell it. Or, at least, we should give it away overseas in a philanthropic gesture. You said you had an interest in charity, and that would make an excellent source of positive public relations."

"We will, once demand for the product increases."

"When will that happen?" The woman just wouldn't let up.

Andrew couldn't say much without tipping his hand. "It is unclear, but all signs point to new tailwinds soon. We have prepared for any eventuality."

"As have we," Emily said, standing once more. "Any eventuality. I appreciate you taking the time to speak with us today, but I must say that your arguments have not convinced me, and I feel surprised by your shortsightedness. I side with George and many others on this issue: CDM Pharmaceuticals cannot and must not go public right now. We have much to consider from this conference. We need a few shake-ups and changes before we can reconvene to consider a public trade offer."

Shake-ups that included a change of leadership. Andrew could hardly believe that she would behave so brazenly in front of the board—even going so far as to call an end to his meeting. She must have more control over them than he'd imagined.

"We know how hard you've worked for this," George said, standing as well, "but right now, the company just doesn't have the maturity for such a venture."

Andrew's hands shook, so he stuck them into his pockets, forcing the fake smile to stay planted on his face. He needed the unanimous approval of the investors to move forward with his plan. Six of them, maybe eight, would fall into line with little effort, but convincing Emily had turned out to be a lost cause. He had hoped to charm her, but clearly, that wouldn't work.

This meeting should have shown them positive figures and statistics, using the company's upward trajectory to win the argument. That, though, hadn't worked. If anything, Emily had gained traction in her war against him. Carmichael had lost this battle.

He wouldn't lose the next.

"I'm aware I won't convince you this afternoon that this is the proper course for our company, so let's table the discussion for now. Thank you all for coming."

He walked over and opened the door, making it clear that the meeting had officially finished. Some members left, while others milled around and held private conversations. Andrew made his way around the table, shaking hands and offering empty platitudes as he ushered them out of the room.

Finally, he made it to where Emily and George stood. A few months ago, he would have considered George his closest ally. Amazing how things changed when a skirt entered the picture. The two had become thick as thieves already, locked in a private conversation, which they halted as soon as he strode up.

"I apologize for the interruption," he said, turning to Emily, "but if you wouldn't mind, I would love for the opportunity to meet with you this afternoon and walk you through our facility. If I recall correctly, you haven't received a personal tour yet."

She eyed him suspiciously. "No, I haven't."

"If you allow me to show you some of our upcoming projects, I feel confident I can sway your opinions."

"I don't think so." Emily shook her head. "I have made up my mind on this. And other things."

"Humor me," Andrew said. "Wouldn't you find some value in visiting CDM Pharmaceuticals' home-base and laboratories?"

"I suppose it would be worth understanding how the day-to-day workings of the company fit together," she said after a moment. "Who knows what the future holds?"

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

"Fine. I need to stop in at my office, and then I will be ready."

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

2

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?" Annoyance flared.

A smirk twisted her face, but upon seeing his furious 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."

Interest lit her features. "Why?"

He forced his business smile on. "I like having my secrets," he said, as playfully as he could muster. "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. 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 faintly, and the warm-plastic smell of running electronics hung in the enclosed space like an invisible curtain—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. The air hung thick with the sterile tang of antiseptic and the faint metallic scent from medical equipment humming softly in the corner—smells that no amount of cheerful wallpaper could disguise.

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 Andrew found simultaneously 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. "I know what you're doing to me. I can feel it. The stuff you put in me—it hurts."

Andrew studied the catheter site visible just beneath Jason's shirt collar—the entry point for their regular treatments. The area looked slightly inflamed. He'd have Monroe check it later.

"Medicine sometimes hurts," Andrew said. He crouched so that his eyes were level with the boy's. "But what we're learning from you is going to change the world. There are children born every day with diseases coded into their genes—sickle cell, cystic fibrosis, Huntington's. They suffer their whole lives because nobody's cracked the code to fix what's broken in their DNA." He paused. "Your blood carries the answer. You're going to save thousands of lives, Jason. Maybe millions."

He meant every word. That was the part that made the rest of it bearable.

"I don't want to save anyone." Jason's voice cracked, and for a moment, the brave mask slipped. Underneath, Andrew glimpsed the terrified child he actually was—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, and he stood before the boy could see it register on his face.

"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.

Something stirred in Andrew's chest. His sister had drawn pictures like that in the hospital—stick figures of their parents, a house they'd never go back to. She'd been nineteen when the genetic heart defect killed her. He'd built CDM on that memory. Every compromise, every line crossed, traced back to the same conviction: that the work mattered more than the cost.

The drawing sat there on the boy's lap. The stick figure father, arms spread wide.

Andrew looked away.

"Finish your drawing," 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 at the door. The words landed harder than they should have. "I know," he said, quieter than he'd intended. Then he left the room, locking the door behind him.

The boy's genetic makeup held the key to everything Andrew had built—the ability to rewrite the fundamental code of human biology, to correct the errors that nature had woven into the species. A mutation so rare that they'd only found it by accident—and now that they had it, the work was too important to stop. Nature had made an error in his sister's DNA. Jason's blood held the tools to ensure that error never destroyed another family. He told himself that, standing in the corridor with the lock still warm under his fingers, and the words rang as true as they always did.

Almost.

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.