Four Golden Rules

"We don't have data as precise as his... but judging by the corrosion of the sac wall, it has probably released between sixty-five and seventy-five percent."

Fury narrowed one eye.

The young doctor had said seventy-two percent.

S.H.I.E.L.D.'s most advanced quantum imaging equipment had taken forty-five minutes to determine something that man had judged to the exact percentage with a single glance.

"MF." Fury rarely swore.

Today was an exception.

He walked to the window and stood with his back to everyone for about a minute.

Then he turned around.

"Romanoff."

"Here."

"Can this sac be removed?"

Natasha looked at the technician.

The technician shook his head. "Not recommended. The sac is adjacent to the lateral spinal cord tract and the vertebral artery. Any vibrations caused by surgery could make the sac wall rupture prematurely. If the toxin is released in full all at once..."

He did not finish, but the meaning was clear.

Fury was silent for several seconds.

"That doctor said he could remove it," Natasha said.

"Him?" The technician's face was full of disbelief. "A doctor from a neighborhood clinic? Even the best neurosurgical teams in the world wouldn't dare touch a surgery like this—"

"Enough." Fury raised a hand.

The technician fell silent.

Fury looked again at the bright spot on the screen for a long time.

"Contact that clinic," he said. "I want to speak with him personally."

At 9:47 that evening, the landline at Miracle Clinic rang.

Lynn was upstairs on the second floor, sorting through the medicine inventory.

He heard the ringing, along with the background noise from the other end of the line—

A high-frequency electromagnetic interference hum, a sound only produced by military-grade encrypted communication lines.

He went downstairs and picked up the phone.

"Doctor Lynn." The man on the other end had a low, unhurried voice.

Every word carried the pressure of saying, You can choose not to speak, but your attitude had better be appropriate.

"I'm Nick Fury. I think we need to talk."

Lynn leaned back in his chair.

After two weeks, he had finally come.

"Director Fury." He spoke in the same gentle tone he used with patients.

"If you're calling to book an appointment, we see patients weekdays from nine in the morning to five in the afternoon. VIP appointments start at one hundred thousand dollars."

The other end of the line was quiet for two seconds.

Then came a brief, somewhat helpless laugh.

"Looks like we'll have to meet in person."

The day Fury came to the clinic, he did not drive or bring a team. He walked there alone.

At least, he looked alone.

Lynn had locked onto him while Fury was still two hundred meters away—a middle-aged Black man in a dark trench coat, an eyepatch over his left eye, his stride steady.

There was a .45-caliber pistol in his coat pocket and a compact backup handgun tucked at the back of his waist.

But farther away—on the roof of an apartment building three hundred meters out, a heartbeat hid behind the parapet.

Five hundred meters away, inside a van, there were two heartbeats and an electronic device in operation.

Two plainclothes agents providing distant cover, plus a communications surveillance van.

Fury had not come alone. He had only made it look that way.

Lynn tidied up the clinic—not to make it look professional, but to hide things Fury should not see.

Such as the ammunition crate Frank had left in the corner, the modified ultrasound device used during Luke's surgery, and that Vibranium bullet.

Frank was not around today.

There were still two days left on his one-month "watchman" term. He had gone out last night and had not returned.

He had probably found a new target.

At exactly nine, Fury pushed open the door and entered.

The first thing he did was sweep his gaze around the clinic's interior.

His eyes lingered on every piece of equipment for about half a second—this man's professional habit was to establish spatial awareness the instant he entered an unfamiliar environment.

"Cleaner than I expected," Fury said.

"Clean places are rare in Hell's Kitchen. Have a seat."

Fury sat down.

He sat with deliberate care—he did not lean back against the chair, his upper body tilted slightly forward, his hands clasped on the tabletop.

It was the posture of a negotiator, not a patient.

"I'll get straight to the point." Fury's single eye fixed on Lynn. "Your abilities are far greater than we estimated. I read the report Romanoff brought back, as well as the results of our own verification. Every word you said was correct."

Lynn nodded without replying.

"I want you to become S.H.I.E.L.D.'s chief medical consultant. Full-time." Fury put extra weight on the last words. "You'll receive the highest level of security and resources. Name your price."

Full-time.

From those two words, Lynn heard what Fury truly wanted—to tie him down.

To turn him into a S.H.I.E.L.D. man, to bind him within the organization using contracts and salary.

Once he became "S.H.I.E.L.D.'s chief medical consultant," he would no longer be an independent variable. He would be a piece on Fury's chessboard.

"Director Fury, I'm honored. But full-time won't work."

Fury narrowed his eye.

"My clinic just opened. My patients are counting on me. I can't shut it down and go work regular hours for you."

"Your clinic sees a dozen or so patients a day. Our medical department is responsible for the health of every superhero on Earth. Which is more important? You can figure that out."

"I can," Lynn said. "And precisely because I can, I can't work full-time. Full-time means my time belongs entirely to you. Every diagnosis and treatment would have to go through your procedures and approvals. That would reduce my efficiency."

"You want freedom."

"I want optimal efficiency."

Fury did not respond immediately. He was weighing it.

Lynn used the opening to lay out the conditions he had prepared.

"I have four conditions. Meet them, and I can cooperate."

"Go on."

"First, the clinic operates independently and is not under S.H.I.E.L.D.'s jurisdiction. My name does not appear in any of your personnel files. To the outside world, I'm just a doctor running a private clinic."

Fury nodded once. "Agreed."

"Second, I have the right to choose whether I treat someone or not. I will not accept compulsory orders under any circumstances. You can send patients to me, and I'll make the call. If I say I can't treat them or don't want to, you can't force me."

Fury stared at him with his one eye for two seconds. "What do you mean by 'don't want to'? Under what circumstances would you not want to treat someone?"

"For example, if they're trying to kill me."

Fury's mouth twitched, but he did not smile. "Fine. The third?"

"For every treatment, S.H.I.E.L.D. must pay the compensation I specify. It won't be limited to money. It can be intelligence, technological equipment, or special materials. We'll negotiate the specifics each time."

"You want equipment and materials from us?"