Chapter 481: The Antibody Heist

Chapter 481: The Antibody Heist

"What are the odds?"

"Seventy percent. The other thirty percent—he might die." Sebastian's tone was matter-of-fact.

Emily closed her eyes.

"He'd rather die than become Miguel's political pawn. Seventy percent is enough."

Sebastian studied her for a long moment, then nodded. "I'll administer the decoy antibody now. Afterward, I'll leave the manor for the safe house downtown. The real antibody stays on me. The facility there has a full medical suite—more than enough to handle any emergency."

"Be careful."

"You too." Sebastian reached the door and paused without turning back. "Emily, I couldn't save your mother back then. But I will do everything in my power to save your husband."

The door clicked shut.

Emily stood motionless. After a long while, she pressed her hand against her chest. It ached terribly, as if something inside were hammering against her ribs.

 

At three in the morning, a man carrying a medical case emerged from the hospital and slipped into a black sedan.

The car soon melted into the darkness.

Just as the sedan rounded the second intersection, two SUVs roared out from the shadows, boxing it in from both sides. Six men in black tactical gear spilled out, weapons drawn. Within seconds, they'd subdued the driver and yanked open the rear door.

The man in the backseat clutched a metal cryo-container in both hands.

The leader extended his hand with cold courtesy. "Hand it over. You get to keep your life."

The man stared at him for several seconds before slowly releasing his grip. The instant the container left his hands, he doubled over in a violent coughing fit, his face draining to the color of ash. "You'll... regret this..."

"We'll take our chances."

The operative checked the container's temperature display and seal, confirmed its authenticity, then signaled his team. Within moments, they'd retreated to the SUVs. Engines roared, and the vehicles vanished into the night.

The driver pulled himself upright and glanced toward the backseat.

The man straightened slowly, all traces of frailty gone. From inside his jacket, he produced an identical cryo-container and ran his fingers over its surface. "The bait's been taken. Now we wait for them to bite." He paused. "Let's go."

The sedan pulled away, heading in the opposite direction entirely.

 

Across the city, in a high-rise apartment, Anouk stood before floor-to-ceiling windows. Her phone screen glowed with a newly arrived encrypted message:

"Package secured. Press conference within 24 hours."

Her grip tightened until her knuckles went white.

Outside, the city lights flickered like an endless masquerade. And at the center of it all lay the man she was willing to destroy herself to save—unconscious in a hospital bed, oblivious to what was coming.

Anouk closed her eyes. Charles's smile in the car flashed through her mind.

Charles... you have to survive this.

 

As night deepened, Charles's breathing in the master bedroom at Windsor Manor grew steadier. On the monitors, his heart rate and oxygen levels climbed slowly upward—still below normal, but no longer plummeting into terrifying freefall.

Ollie sat bolt upright, his withered hands trembling as they gripped his grandson's. "Charles? Charles, can you hear me?"

The man's eyelashes fluttered. Slowly, his eyes opened.

Those eyes—usually sharp as a hawk's—were clouded with weakness now, but unmistakably focused on Ollie.

"Uncle..." His voice was barely a rasp, yet perfectly clear.

Ollie's tears fell freely.

At the same moment, Emily received an encrypted message from Fiona:

"Fish has bitten."

 

At four in the morning, Windsor Manor blazed with light.

Anouk stepped through the entrance, the metal cryo-container clutched tightly in her hands.

Miguel's operatives had worked with ruthless efficiency. Less than an hour after the heist, the container had been delivered to her.

Ollie descended the grand staircase, leaning heavily on his cane. A single night seemed to have aged him a decade. His gaze locked onto the container. A flicker of hope sparked in his rheumy eyes. "That's the antibody?"

"Yes, Mr. Windsor. Just developed. Dr. Diaz said it must be administered immediately. The virus is still mutating—any delay could be fatal."

Ollie turned to the family physician. The middle-aged man in the white coat stepped forward, accepted the container, and ran it through a portable analyzer. Minutes later, he looked up, his tone cautious. "The analysis shows a monoclonal antibody complex. Activity indicators are normal. In theory, it should neutralize multiple coronavirus variants. However, Mr. Charles Windsor's immune system is extremely unstable. Any foreign protein could trigger severe anaphylaxis or cytokine storm."

"What are the odds?" Ollie's voice cracked.

"Thirty percent survival. But without the injection, given Mr. Windsor's current condition, he won't make it through the night."

The air froze.

Anouk held her breath. She knew there was no turning back. Miguel was waiting. Charles was waiting. Everyone was waiting for this outcome.

Ollie closed his eyes. "Do it. Administer it now."

 

The master bedroom reeked of antiseptic.

Charles lay motionless, pale as death. His breathing was so shallow his chest barely moved. Machines crowded the bedside, their screens tracking his failing vital signs in cold, unforgiving numbers.

The physician sterilized, drew the dose, expelled air bubbles—his movements swift and practiced. The needle pierced Charles's vein. His eyelashes seemed to tremble, but his eyes remained shut.

The injection took ten minutes.

The physician withdrew the needle, pressed a cotton swab to the puncture site, and began monitoring Charles's readings. Everyone held their breath. Only the machines' rhythmic beeping broke the silence.

One minute. Two. Five.

Suddenly, the EKG spiked. Charles's body convulsed violently.

"BP dropping! Heart rate 140!" the nurse cried out.

"Prepare epinephrine!" the physician barked.

Just as the medical team lunged into action, Charles's body went slack. The wild lines on the monitors smoothed into steady rhythm. The ventilator's waveform stabilized. Most striking of all was his temperature—moments ago at 103.6°F, now visibly dropping.

101.3°F. 100.2°F. 98.9°F.

The physician stared at the screen in disbelief. "Temperature's falling. Oxygen saturation rising—91%, 93%, 95%! This... this is miraculous!"

Anouk's hand flew to her mouth. She'd actually done it. She'd saved Charles.

Ollie's cane trembled in his grip. He stepped forward, his weathered hand settling on Charles's forehead.

The scorching heat was indeed receding.

"Charles? Charles, can you hear me?"