The Hacker On The Run

Chapter 8: The Call

The VIP lounge of the Big Daddy Club overlooked a floor packed with people moving beneath sweeping beams of laser light. Heavy bass vibrated through the plush leather booth where Jake Smith sat with three business partners. An expensive tumbler of bourbon sat untouched on the polished table before him.

The conversation at the table centered on commercial real estate and city zoning, but Jake’s attention kept drifting toward his phone.

“You’ve checked that screen four times in ten minutes, Jake,” one of his associates teased, raising a glass. “Leave the work at the office for one night.”

Jake offered a faint, polite smile, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket. “Force of habit.”

Earlier that week, Austin had mentioned touching base once he wrapped up his business in the industrial district. Jake glanced at the clock: nearly 11:00 PM. He considered sending a quick text, then decided against it. If Austin was with Millie, the last thing he needed was Jake interrupting. He slipped the phone into his jacket pocket and reached for his drink.

Before his fingers touched the glass, the phone vibrated against his ribs.

He pulled it out. The display showed an unlisted local number. Excusing himself from the booth, Jake stepped away from the noise of the main room, walking down the quieter hallway leading toward the private terrace.

He slid the screen open. “Jake Smith.”

“Mr. Smith, this is Astera Central Hospital calling,” a woman’s voice said, crisp and professional over the line. “You are listed as the primary emergency contact for an Austin Miller.”

The noise of the nightclub seemed to drain away instantly. Jake’s hand tightened on the receiver. “I am. What’s going on?”

“Mr. Miller and a female passenger, Millie Taylor, were admitted to our trauma center following a high-speed vehicle collision,” the caller stated flatly. “Both patients have undergone emergency surgical procedures and are in the Intensive Care Unit. We need you to come to the hospital immediately to review emergency authorization documents.”

Jake felt the air leave his lungs. “Are they... are they stable?”

“They are both currently in critical condition, Mr. Smith,” she replied. “Please report directly to the third-floor ICU desk upon arrival.”

The line disconnected. Jake lowered the phone slowly, his eyes fixed on the neon lights reflecting off the hallway floor.

Without returning to the table, he swung past the booth, grabbed his coat from the rack, and headed straight for the valet exit. He handed his ticket to the attendant, climbed into his sedan the moment it pulled up, and hit the ignition.

The drive across Astera City was a blur of amber streetlights and late-night commercial traffic. Jake kept his eyes glued to the asphalt, his hands clamped to the three-and-nine positions on the steering wheel at a rigid, iron grip. The hands-free display on his dashboard chimed ten minutes later as the hospital's central desk called back to verify his arrival time and confirm his status as Austin's legal contact. He answered in monosyllables, keeping his focus strictly on the road.

He pulled into the emergency drop-off lane at Astera Central, parked in the designated visitor slot, and pushed through the sliding glass doors into the main lobby.

The sharp smell of antiseptic and floor polish replaced the cool night air. Nurses moved between triage stations, and security guards stood near the automated elevators. Jake walked quickly to the central desk, his boots clicking sharply against the linoleum.

“Jake Smith,” he told the receptionist. “I was called regarding Austin Miller.”

The receptionist checked her terminal, nodded, and tapped a button on her intercom. “ICU, floor three. Take elevator B on your right.”

Jake rode the elevator up in silence, the floor indicator lights ticking slowly upward. When the doors opened on the third floor, a quiet, sterile corridor stretched ahead, lit by subdued overhead panels. A floor nurse met him at the secure doors marked *Intensive Care Unit*.

“Mr. Smith?” she asked gently.

“Yes. Where is he?”

“Right this way.” She swiped her keycard, leading him down a wide hallway lined with glass-fronted isolation rooms. “Both patients came out of surgery less than an hour ago. Mr. Miller sustained significant blunt-force trauma and a severe head injury. He is currently on mechanical ventilation.”

She stopped outside Bay 4.

Jake stepped up to the observation glass. Inside, Austin lay motionless under a heavy white blanket, his head bound in dense gauze padding. A clear plastic ventilator tube was routed into his mouth, his chest rising and falling in rhythmic, artificial cycles driven by the machine beside the bed. Monitors flickered above his head, tracing thin green lines across dark screens.

Jake stood completely still, his reflection ghosting against the reinforced glass.

The heavy double doors at the end of the hall clicked open, and a doctor in surgical scrubs pulled off his paper cap, stepping into the corridor. He checked the chart in his hands before looking up at Jake.

“Mr. Smith?” the doctor asked, his tone flat, exhausted, and serious. “I’m Dr. Mark. We need to discuss his prognosis.”