Two in the morning, and the hospital corridor lights were a harsh, blinding white.
I crouched outside the emergency room.
A nurse came over and handed me a bill.
"Excuse me, the patient has an acute stroke. Please settle the payment first, then come back to complete admission."
I took the slip and glanced at the number.
Eighteen thousand.
The balance across all my bank cards came to nine thousand three hundred.
I hunkered down at the far end of the hallway.
A text from Jackson came in:
"I can get your mom admitted first."
I stared at that line, my finger hovering over the screen for five seconds.
Then I called him.
"Jackson, I..."
"Cut the crap. You want your mom to live, then move it. The Elite Club, basement."
He hung up right away.
I got to my feet, my legs a little numb.
The Elite Club, the most exclusive private club in the city. A single year's membership cost more than I made in three.
I walked into the lobby, and a big man in a black suit came toward me.
"You're Clyde Finch, right? Mr. Dickerson's waiting. Come with me."
I followed him down the corridor and two flights of stairs.
He pushed open an iron door, and several thugs closed in fast and pinned me to the ground.
"Mr. Dickerson, he's here."
"Strip him down. Don't leave a single thing on him!"
Jackson sat on the sofa, legs crossed, swirling a glass of red wine in his hand.
The men rushed in and clawed at my clothes in a clumsy scramble.
While I was thrashing and being held down, a short thug with a burn scar on the back of his hand got shoved off balance and fell.
"You're absolutely useless!" Jackson kicked him and said with disgust, "Kane, go guard the door."
Kane didn't dare say a word. He scrambled up, head down, and went to the door.
Struggling, I caught a glimpse of the phone screen lit up in Kane's pocket.
I didn't have time to think about it. A fist landed on the back of my head, and I was thrown into the basement.
"Jackson, what the hell do you want?"
Jackson stood and walked over.
"Clyde, about your mom. My uncle says he can arrange the admission."
"But there's a condition."
He pulled out a document and tossed it in front of me.
"Sign it, and your mom gets a VIP ward right away."
I looked down. Five words across the top:
Patent Licensing Agreement.
"Jackson, you faked a recording to smear me, now you lock me up here, and you want me to hand over the only thing my father left me?"
"You son of a bitch, are you insane? Or do you take me for an idiot?"
He snorted out a laugh.
"Heh. Clyde, Clyde. You really think you're in any position to bargain?"
"Locked up down here, you're nothing but a stray dog."
He swirled the wine again, easy as ever, took a sip, and went on, pleased with himself:
"Please. That junk chip patent of your dad's, I'm doing you a favor by even bothering to squeeze eight million out of it."
I stared at him, dumbstruck.
"What? Not signing?" He smiled. "Fine. Your mom can just lie there in the observation room. Beds are tight, though. Wait three, five days, she'll probably make it up the list."
"Jackson, don't push it."
"Push it?" He leaned in close, dropping his voice. "When you hung that wooden sign at my wedding, you didn't think that was pushing it?"
I clenched my fists, nails biting into my palms.
"Your wedding?"
"That's right. My wedding. You walked out on it, so I had no choice but to step in for you. Hahaha."
He sneered, that leer all over his face, then twirled the stun baton and pointed it, toying, at my crotch.
"Not like you, Clyde. You couldn't step up for anything. Hahaha."
"Screw you, Jackson, you'll die a rotten death, you... ugh... ah... nngh..."
One of the thugs jabbed the stun baton into me.
All the strength drained out of me at once, and I rolled and convulsed on the floor, trying to twist away from it.
