Chapter 11: The Smoking Gun
247 words
Elena plugged the drive into her ancient laptop, her heart hammering against her ribs. The fan whirred loudly, struggling to process the video file labeled OR_Cam_04_12.mp4. The date of her surgery.
The video sprang to life. The timestamp showed 2:00 AM. Dr. Thorne stumbled into the frame, his white coat unbuttoned. He wasn't the poised silver fox from the billboards; he was disheveled, swaying. He took a swig from a flask before snapping on gloves without washing his hands.
"Oh my god," Elena breathed, covering her mouth.
On screen, Thorne laughed at something the anesthesiologist said, then answered his ringing cell phone. He pinned the phone between his shoulder and ear while holding a scalpel over an unconscious Elena.
"Put it all on black," Thorne shouted into the phone, ignoring the monitors beeping. "I need to cover the loan sharks effectively yesterday!"
He waved a hand at a terrified-looking intern. "Finish the stitching. I have to take this." He walked out. The intern, shaking, picked up the needle.
This was it. The smoking gun. Digital forensics would prove he was drunk and negligent. This was the end of his empire.
Suddenly, the screen glitched. Green pixels tore through Thorne’s face. The audio descended into a screeching static. A pop-up box appeared: Datastream Corrupted. Decryption Key Required for Medical Records Privacy.
The video froze. The file was locked behind a paywall of encryption she didn't understand, and the drive was hot to the touch.
End of Chapter 11
