Focus on Revenge A Photographer’s Killer Shot novel Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Thaddeus cut me off, his tone sharp and final:

“This shoot represents our magazine’s reputation and the ethics of adventure journalism. Nobody gets to gamble with a photographer’s life, especially not as some sick power play to eliminate competition.”

The helicopter touched down smoothly at the emergency rescue base at the mountain’s foot.

When the cabin doors opened, frigid air rushed in again, but I was wrapped up tight now.

Medical personnel rushed over with a gurney, efficiently wheeling me toward the hyperbaric treatment room.

As we moved through the connecting corridor from the landing pad, I saw Cassian and Lyra were being held separately by rescue

team members, getting escorted to different interrogation rooms.

Cassian’s jacket was disheveled, his hair a mess from the wind. All that arrogance was gone-now he just looked panicked, unsettled.

Lyra kept her head down, her previously rosy complexion now deathly pale, shaking like a leaf.

That puffer jacket she’d taken from me looked obscene now, oversized and out of place.

As we passed by them, Lyra suddenly looked up, her eyes filled with terror and desperation:

“Isolde! Isolde, I’m so sorry! Cassian made me do it! He told me to switch your oxygen, he said I could take your stuff! He said if you had an ‘accident,’ I’d be lead photographer and he’d run the whole studio!”

Cassian whipped around and glared at her, his voice cracking with rage:

“You lying bitch! You’re the one with the sick mind, gunning for Isolde’s position! Don’t you dare try to pin all this shit on me!”

“You started this!”

Lyra panicked, struggling to lunge at him while rescue personnel held her back.

You said she was in your way! Your dad’s the sponsor and he would cover it up! You promised the studio would be ours!”

The two of them tore into each other like rabid dogs, spilling all the sick schemes they’d hidden behind their pretty facades.

Thaddeus frowned and told the rescue team coldly:

‘Separate them! Solitary confinement for questioning! I don’t want to hear another word of this bullshit!”

I lay on that gurney watching their twisted faces, whatever tiny bit of warmth I’d still held for them finally turned to ice.

All those promises we’d made, the struggle of building the studio together, our shared passion for photography-when faced with greed and jealousy, it all crumbled.

The hyperbaric chamber reeked of disinfectant mixed with metal, IV fluid dripping steadily like a countdown to the truth.

I was stretched out on the bed, frostbite still stinging under bandages.

The doctor said if rescue had been even ten minutes later, the lack of oxygen and extreme cold would’ve caused permanent brain and limb damage.

Early the next morning, Thaddeus showed up with his investigation team.

He had a thick stack of printed records and data analysis reports, dropping them on my bedside table with a grim expression:

“We’ve recovered all the GoPro footage and audio from your team, pulled the satellite phone logs and recordings, interviewed the other assistants and guides.”

“The evidence is conclusive.”

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