Page 48 of Vital Signs (Wayward Sons #7)

"You will anyway," Misha replied, pressing just hard enough to break the skin. A thin line of blood appeared, trailing down Wright's cheek.

Wright's composure fractured completely. His body convulsed against the restraints, a whimper escaping his throat. A dark stain spread across the front of his pants as his bladder released.

"The protocols," he gasped, shame and terror warring on his face. "God, please. I'll tell you everything. The OLEP protocols. Just stop."

The sight of the proud, arrogant doctor soiling himself should have been satisfying. Instead, it was just pathetic. Human. This monster, who had murdered Tyler, who had tortured and killed dozens, was reduced to begging and pissing himself at the first real taste of pain.

War nodded to Eli, who wrenched Wright's head back. Misha positioned the scalpel above Wright's eye. Wright thrashed against his restraints, sheer animal panic overtaking him.

"NO!" he screamed, thrashing wildly. "NOT MY EYES! PLEASE, NO!"

His entire body convulsed with terror, all pretense of dignity abandoned. Tears streamed down his face as he fought against the restraints.

"I'LL TELL YOU ANYTHING!" he wailed. "EVERYTHING! PLEASE DON'T TAKE MY EYES!"

Misha pressed the scalpel closer, its point just millimeters from Wright's eyeball. Wright's pleas dissolved into wordless, keening sounds of terror.

"The OLEP protocols," Misha prompted.

Wright nodded frantically, words tumbling out in a desperate flood.

"Open Label Extension Phase. We push beyond safety parameters.

No ethical oversight. No boundaries. Subjects aren't removed when adverse reactions occur.

We continue. We document. We establish physiological limits through. .. through death if necessary."

"Tell us about Tyler," Shepherd said.

Wright's eyes darted to the scalpel still hovering near his face. "Initial NeuroPath-5 doses caused minor cardiac irregularities. Normal procedure would stop there. I doubled it instead. Wanted to see what would happen. His heart... his heart couldn't take it."

"He died in pain," I said quietly. "Alone."

"Yes," Wright admitted, shame briefly flickering across his features before self-preservation took over again. "But the data was exceptional. Truly groundbreaking."

For a moment, his scientific enthusiasm returned, genuine excitement about his research overriding even his fear. Then he saw the look on my face and shrank back in the chair.

"I mean, it was terrible. Unnecessary. I... I regret it deeply." The transparent lie hung in the air. Whatever remorse he was capable of extended only to himself.

"How many others?" Misha asked.

Wright shook his head. "I can't," he whispered, genuine fear in his voice. "They'll kill me. Victoria Nash doesn't allow loose ends."

Misha nodded to Eli. “Hold him.”

"Six!" Wright blurted, tears streaming down his face. "Six primary locations, dozens of satellites. I'll give you addresses. Names. Everything."

Eli relaxed his hold on Wright.

"The network spans six primary locations with dozens of satellite operations," he continued, words rushing out. "Each site targets specific demographic vulnerabilities. People society has already discarded. People no one misses."

Six cities. Dozens of operations. The scope stole my breath.

"Tell us about the network," Shepherd commanded.

"Eastern Kentucky," Wright began, voice steadier now that he was talking about his work.

Despite everything, pride crept back into his tone.

"Former mining families. Their respiratory conditions from years underground mask our drug effects beautifully.

The Fairbanks facility serves indigenous villages in Alaska.

Geographic isolation ensures participation with minimal interference. "

The way he perked up when describing his "research" was revolting. Even in his fear and pain, the scientific satisfaction remained. This wasn't just a job to him. It was a calling.

"There’s also Truth or Consequences, New Mexico," he continued, pausing to swallow back a sob. "Three tribal communities. Language barriers and... and historical medical mistrust create ideal conditions for flexible consent protocols."

The words "flexible consent" hung in the air, the euphemism so grotesque it made my skin crawl.

"The Mississippi Delta operation targets agricultural workers," he pressed on, eager to prove his cooperation now. "Transient population with limited healthcare access."

"Jesus Christ," I whispered. The systematic nature of it was staggering. They'd mapped vulnerable populations across the country like mining companies surveying for ore deposits.

"West Virginia coal mining families, Maine logging communities," Wright continued, the words tumbling out faster now. "Border populations in South Texas. Each site was tailored to specific demographic advantages."

A note of pride crept into his voice again, the scientist momentarily eclipsing the terrified captive. "It's really quite brilliant targeting. Nash spent years developing the vulnerability maps."

The momentary return of his scientific enthusiasm earned him a sharp crack across the face from Misha. Wright yelped, blood spraying from his split lip.

"Sorry," he gasped. "I just meant... the methodology was thorough. Not that I approve. I was just following protocols."

The classic excuse of monsters throughout history. Just following orders. Just doing their jobs.

Misha circled behind Wright's chair, hands trailing across the metal back. "And you coordinated all of this?"

"I provided consultation and training," Wright answered, flinching whenever anyone moved near him. "Standardized protocols ensure data compatibility across sites. The network is... it's quite elegant, actually. From a research perspective."

He caught himself again, realizing how he sounded. "Not that I... I mean, I was just doing my job. Following Nash's directives."

War approached with a pair of surgical pliers. Wright's facade completely collapsed.

"No more, please," he sobbed openly now, no trace of the dignified doctor remaining. "I've told you everything I know."

His voice broke on the last word. The reality of his situation had finally, completely registered. He wasn't walking away from this. No amount of scientific jargon or professional detachment would save him.

"I have a family," he tried, desperation making him reckless. "Please… My wife doesn't know what I do. Please. I'll disappear. I'll turn state's evidence. Anything."

Even in his terror, he was still calculating, still looking for leverage. Still using the humanity of others—a son who might mourn him—as currency while denying that same humanity to his "research subjects."

"Victoria Nash," Misha said quietly, setting the pliers against Wright's front tooth. "Tell us everything."

Wright's eyes bulged with terror. The pliers closed on his incisor, applying just enough pressure to send pain shooting through his jaw.

"CEO of Meridian BioSystems!" he shrieked, the words garbled against the metal. "The holding company above Empirical! She created the entire program!"

War took over, keeping the pliers steady while Misha stepped back. Wright's entire body trembled now, his remaining composure completely gone.

"Federal connections?" Shepherd prompted.

"Her husband," Wright gasped as War twisted the pliers slightly. "Senator Robert Nash. Colorado. Health committee. Any investigation gets buried. Please, the tooth, not the tooth."

Sweat poured down his face, mingling with tears and blood. "I'm telling you everything. Nash identified healthcare deserts and vulnerable populations. 'Human resource optimization,' she calls it. Finding subjects who won't be missed. Won't be investigated."

"Say his name," I demanded, stepping closer. "Not 4-5-8-G-21. His name."

War applied more pressure to the pliers. Wright's eyes rolled back in agony.

"Tyler Graham," he whimpered, words slurred around the pliers. "Tyler Graham. Please. I'm sorry. I'm sorry about Tyler."

The apology was meaningless, born of fear rather than remorse, but hearing Tyler's name from his mouth felt important somehow. An acknowledgment, however forced, of Tyler's humanity.

"You murdered him," Misha said.

"I followed protocols!" Wright sobbed. "I had quotas. Nash expected results!"

"Bullshit." I moved closer, towering over Wright. "You killed him because you could. Because no one gave a fuck about some homeless trans kid. Because his life was worth less to you than whatever your pharmaceutical buddies were paying per body."

"People like Tyler die anyway," he said, voice breaking. "On the streets. From overdoses. From violence. From neglect." A note of desperate justification entered his tone. "At least through my research, their deaths meant something. Served a purpose. Advanced medicine."

"Tyler wasn't dying," I said quietly. "He was fighting. Saving money. Planning for surgery, for housing, for a future. You murdered someone who was trying to live."

A flicker of genuine guilt crossed Wright's face, there and gone in an instant. Then his self-preservation instinct took over again.

"I can help you," he pleaded, eyes darting between us. "I know where every site is. Every researcher. Every protocol. I can testify. I can wear a wire. I can do whatever you want. Just please. Please don't kill me."

His pleas might have been convincing if I hadn't seen the way his face lit up when talking about his methodology or the pride in his voice when describing how neatly they'd targeted vulnerable communities.

"Tyler Graham was twenty-six years old," I said quietly, each word a knife. "He worried about me when I was using too much. He was kind and brave and real."

Wright's body went limp in the chair, resignation finally replacing terror. "I know," he whispered. "I remember him now. He kept saying he needed to leave early during that last session. Said you'd worry if he was late. I told him he'd lose his bonus if he left before the protocol was complete."