I Found My Pregnant Wife on a Hospital Floor—Then Her Sister's Face Changed When She Saw the Camera / Chapter 43 / 75

Chapter 43 - The Clinic Above Lake Zurich

Seven hours later, the Gulfstream banked hard over the snow-capped peaks of the Glarus Alps, descending through a dense bank of white fog toward the shimmering, slate-gray waters of Lake Zurich.

Down below, perched high on the forested cliffs above the eastern shore of the lake, stood the Clinique des Alpes.

It looked less like a medical facility and more like a modernist billionaire’s fortress: sweeping curves of reinforced glass, gray limestone terraces, and a private helicopter landing pad cantilevered out over the two-hundred-foot cliff. High security fences topped with motion sensors snaked through the pine forest surrounding the entire estate.

We touched down at Kloten Airport at 3:10 PM local time.

Thanks to Anthony’s diplomatic credentials and the pre-authorized medical transfer codes, we bypassed the main terminal entirely. A dark gray Mercedes Maybach with diplomatic plates was waiting for us on the apron, its driver standing at attention in a black trench coat.

"Herr Vance?" the driver asked in clipped, formal German, stepping forward as we descended the stairs into the biting Swiss alpine air.

"Anthony is meeting us directly at the clinic," Isabella answered smoothly in fluent German, stepping between the driver and Khloe. "I am Isabella Vance. This is Khloe and the primary donor child. We are running forty minutes behind schedule. Take us to Sub-Level 2 immediately."

The driver hesitated for a fraction of a second, his eyes drifting toward my soot-stained coat and the dark bruises around my throat.

I reached inside my jacket, resting my hand conspicuously against the grip of the heavy 9mm pistol I had taken from Anthony’s holster on the boat.

"Do we have a problem?" I asked, my voice flat, deadly, and perfectly steady.

The driver swallowed, bowed his head, and opened the rear doors. "No, sir. Madame Catherine is already in the surgical preparation suite. She expects you."

The drive up the winding mountain road was excruciating. Every switchback through the frozen pine trees brought us closer to the lion's den.

Khloe didn't speak. She had wrapped Nathan securely in an insulated carrier strapped across her chest, covering him with a heavy black cashmere shawl. In her right pocket, her hand remained closed around the steel utility knife. In her left, she held the vial of Anthony’s graphene fingerprint.

"Remember the layout," Isabella whispered, leaning across the seats as the iron gates of the clinic swung open automatically to admit the Maybach. "The public clinic is on the top three floors. It’s all luxury spas, private suites, and cosmetic surgery for foreign royalty. Sub-Level 2 is the research core. It requires biometric access and an armed security escort. That’s where the neonatal isolation chambers are."

"Where will Catherine be?" I asked, checking the magazine of the pistol beneath my coat.

"In the observation theater directly above the surgical unit," Isabella said, her voice shaking slightly. "She hasn't left an isolation bubble in six months. Her immune system is completely shot. She’s living on synthetic blood filters until the transplant."

The car pulled down a concrete ramp into a subterranean garage lined with polished white tile and blinding LED strips.

Two armed guards in dark tactical uniforms with *ALPENROSE SECURITY* patches stepped forward, assault rifles slung across their chests.

The rear door was pulled open from the outside.

"Welcome to Clinique des Alpes," a man’s voice said with surgical precision.

Standing on the pristine concrete floor was Dr. Heinrich Weiss—the chief surgeon who had signed the secret manifest in Boston. He was a tall, skeletal man in his late fifties, with wire-rimmed spectacles and a tailored white lab coat that looked as sterile as a shroud.