Chapter 14 Sperm Bank Trap
# Chapter 14: Sperm Bank Trap
The morning news carried two stories that changed our tactical approach. First, Lucas Albert had been transferred overnight to a private medical facility at an undisclosed location—presumably to prevent further unauthorized visits. Second, Albert Friedrich had called a press conference to address the "maliciously edited and potentially fabricated video" circulating online.
"They're in damage control mode," I noted, watching Albert on screen, flanked by a team of lawyers and PR specialists. His expression was one of practiced concern as he condemned the "cowardly attack" on his family's reputation.
"While we investigate the source of this defamatory material, my focus remains on my son's recovery from his tragic suicide attempt—a desperate act triggered by the psychological manipulation of a former employee with falsified credentials."
The narrative was masterful—positioning Lucas as the victim, me as the villain, and the video as a sophisticated fake. Most importantly, he never mentioned Elliot, maintaining the fiction that his younger son had been "abducted" rather than acknowledging his willing departure.
Elliot watched the press conference with cold eyes, occasionally writing observations in his notebook:
*Notice body language when mentioning Lucas. Tension in jaw. He's angry his elimination attempt failed.*
His insight was sharp. Albert did seem irritated rather than relieved when discussing his son's survival.
"We need to accelerate our timeline," I decided. "The safe deposit box first, then we execute the final phase before they can bury this completely."
Accessing Winton's safe deposit box at Citibank presented a complex challenge. Box 4721 would require either Winton himself or someone with proper authorization—neither of which we had.
"We could forge documents," I suggested, "but banks have tightened security protocols. They'll verify with Winton directly before allowing access."
Elliot considered the problem, then wrote: *Need DNA, not documents.*
His solution was elegant in its simplicity. Winton Pierce, like many wealthy men, had made a significant deposit at Manhattan Cryobank years earlier—insurance against future reproductive needs. If we could obtain a sample of his genetic material from the sperm bank, we could potentially use it to bypass the bank's biometric security measures.
"How do you know about his sperm deposit?" I asked, surprised.
Elliot's response was matter-of-fact: *Father made all male family members and executives do it. Company policy after some board member became infertile from cancer treatment. Succession planning.*
The Albert empire truly did think of everything.
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Breaking into a sperm bank would normally be difficult, but we had an unexpected advantage—Lucas's DNA sample that I'd collected during my time in the penthouse. A strand of hair from his hairbrush, carefully preserved in anticipation of exactly this type of need.
"If the Albert executives all used the same facility, Lucas's DNA might get us access to the storage area," I reasoned. "From there, we can locate Winton's sample."
Elliot nodded, adding: *Then synthesize fingerprint from the sample container.*
It was scientifically possible—extracting fingerprint oils from a surface touched by the target—though technically challenging. Fortunately, my years of preparation had included connections to a former forensic specialist who had the necessary equipment.
By afternoon, we had a workable plan. I would pose as Dr. Elena Kim, fertility specialist consulting on Lucas Albert's case, using the hospital credentials my contact had provided. The story: with Lucas incapacitated, the family wanted to ensure additional samples were secured, given the uncertain prognosis.
Manhattan Cryobank occupied a discreet building in Midtown, its marble lobby projecting medical authority rather than its actual function as a repository of wealthy men's genetic legacy. I entered alone—Elliot's face was too recognizable now that the Alberts had publicized his "abduction"—carrying a medical transport container and the necessary documentation.
"Dr. Kim for Mr. Albert's account," I told the receptionist, presenting my credentials. "Presbyterian Hospital sent me. Time-sensitive matter."
The staff was appropriately solicitous when faced with Lucas Albert's name and medical emergency. After a brief verification call to the hospital number we'd provided—rerouted to our accomplice—I was escorted to a consultation room.
The facility director, Dr. Patel, joined me shortly. "This is highly unusual protocol, Dr. Kim."
"As is a suicide attempt by insulin overdose," I replied smoothly. "Given the unknown effects of the insulin shock on sperm quality, the family wants fresh samples collected and the existing samples verified."
He nodded, professional curiosity seemingly satisfied. "I'll need to see authorization from the patient or family."
I produced the forged document bearing Albert Friedrich's signature. "Mr. Friedrich authorized access to both his son's account and his own. The family is concerned about genetic continuity given the circumstances."
The mention of Albert's own account was a calculated risk—I had no way of knowing if he stored samples here as well, but the implication of accessing a billionaire's personal genetic material created exactly the flustered response I'd hoped for.
"Mr. Friedrich's account? I—that would require additional verification."
"Of course," I agreed readily. "But perhaps we could start with Lucas Albert's samples? Time is a factor in post-insulin recovery cases."
This redirection worked perfectly. Dr. Patel led me personally to the storage facility, a climate-controlled room with hundreds of labeled containers in specialized freezers.
"Mr. Albert's samples are in section C," he explained, using a keycard to access the high-security area. "We'll need to verify the viability before releasing any samples."
"I'd like to examine them here first," I insisted. "Hospital protocol for chain of custody."
He hesitated, then nodded. "I'll have a technician bring them to the examination station."
As he stepped away to summon assistance, I quickly activated the electronic device in my pocket—a signal jammer that would create just enough interference with the security cameras to give me a few moments of unmonitored movement.
When the technician arrived with Lucas's samples, I made a show of examining the containers while surreptitiously scanning the storage units around us. Each was labeled with a client number rather than a name—a privacy measure that complicated my search.
"These appear viable," I confirmed to the hovering technician. "Now, regarding the extraction process for fresh samples given the patient's condition..."
As I engaged him in technical medical discussion, my eyes continued scanning the labels until I spotted what I needed—not Winton's samples, but the master log book that would contain client numbers mapped to names.
"Would you mind getting me the collection protocol for comatose patients?" I asked. "I believe Dr. Patel mentioned a specialized kit."
The moment he stepped away, I moved swiftly to the logbook, photographing several pages until I found what I needed: Winton Pierce, client #8742, Section E.
I had barely returned to my position when the technician reappeared with the requested materials. We spent another ten minutes discussing technical details before I asked the critical question:
"I notice you organize by client number rather than name. Very secure. Is that standard for all accounts, including long-term storage like Mr. Pierce's?"
The name drop was calculated—establishing that I already knew about Winton's account would make accessing it seem less suspicious.
"Yes, all clients receive a numeric identifier," he confirmed. "Mr. Pierce's samples would be under the same system, though I'm not personally familiar with his account details."
"I believe his samples may also require verification, given the family connection and shared legal interests," I said casually. "Could we check those as well? I have authorization for both accounts."
The technician looked uncertain. "That would require Dr. Patel's approval. Let me get him."
While he was gone, I moved quickly to Section E, locating bin 8742—Winton's samples. The containers were sealed with biometric locks requiring a fingerprint, but that wasn't what I was after. I needed only to examine and photograph the external case, which would almost certainly contain trace elements of Winton's skin cells and fingerprint oils.
I had just finished collecting my samples when Dr. Patel returned, looking slightly suspicious. "Dr. Kim, accessing multiple accounts wasn't specified in your original request."
"My apologies for the confusion," I said smoothly. "Given the legal complexities, the hospital wanted verification of all related accounts. But if it's problematic, we can focus solely on Lucas Albert's samples today."
The strategic retreat worked; Dr. Patel relaxed visibly. "That would be preferable. Mr. Pierce would need to authorize access to his account directly."
Twenty minutes later, I left the facility with exactly what I'd come for—not the actual sperm samples, which were irrelevant to our plan, but the trace DNA and fingerprint materials from Winton's sample container, carefully preserved in specialized collection strips hidden in my purse.
Elliot was waiting in our rented car two blocks away, his face partially concealed by a hoodie and sunglasses. When I slipped into the passenger seat, he raised an eyebrow in question.
"Mission accomplished," I confirmed, showing him the collection strips. "With these, we can synthesize Winton's fingerprints and potentially a DNA sample if needed."
He nodded in approval, then handed me his phone, displaying a breaking news alert:
"ALBERT FRIEDRICH RELEASES MEDICAL RECORDS PROVING SON'S INFERTILITY, CLAIMS VIDEO EVIDENCE TECHNICALLY IMPOSSIBLE"
The article detailed Albert's latest countermove: medical documentation supposedly proving Lucas had been diagnosed with azoospermia—complete absence of viable sperm—three years earlier, making the alleged assault "technically impossible" as his legal team claimed no DNA evidence could have been collected.
"They're getting desperate," I noted. "Releasing private medical information about Lucas without his consent shows how far Albert will go to protect himself."
Elliot's expression darkened as he wrote: *Using his son's infertility against his will. Typical.*
I studied the medical documents more carefully. "These records look genuine, but they're dated after my assault. They're not proving Lucas was infertile when he attacked me—they're showing he became infertile later."
Elliot nodded, writing: *Steroid abuse. Lucas started heavy cycles after 2017. Side effect.*
This information—Lucas's post-assault infertility resulting from steroid use—was actually useful to us. It showed a timeline that supported our evidence rather than contradicting it, though the public might not immediately recognize the distinction.
"Albert's getting sloppy," I observed. "Making mistakes because he's panicking."
As our driver navigated through midtown traffic toward Citibank's main branch on Park Avenue, I used the specialized equipment from my contact to begin processing the fingerprint samples. The portable device—about the size of a smartphone—slowly constructed a three-dimensional model of Winton's fingerprint, which could be transferred to a synthetic skin patch.
Elliot watched the process with fascination, occasionally writing observations or questions. His scientific curiosity reminded me that despite his traumatic upbringing, he possessed a brilliant mind that had never been given proper channels for development.
"Almost there," I murmured as the device completed its work, producing a nearly perfect replica of Winton's right thumbprint on a thin film of synthetic material that would fool most biometric scanners.
We arrived at Citibank just before closing time. The private client entrance for safe deposit box holders featured enhanced security—cameras, guards, and biometric verification stations. I would need to handle this phase alone, as Elliot's face was now too recognizable.
"Wait here," I told him. "If I'm not back in thirty minutes, execute contingency plan B."
He nodded grimly, handing me a small device that looked like a normal key fob but functioned as both a panic button and an evidence dead-drop—if activated, it would automatically upload all our collected files to servers around the world.
I entered the bank wearing yet another disguise—this time as Patricia Pierce, Winton's cousin, with documentation showing power of attorney. The paperwork was immaculate, courtesy of my contact's forgery skills, but the fingerprint would be the true test.
The private client manager greeted me with the deferential attitude reserved for the ultra-wealthy. "Ms. Pierce, how may we assist you today?"
"I need to access Winton's safe deposit box," I explained, presenting my documentation. "He's dealing with the Albert crisis and asked me to retrieve specific documents."
The timing worked in my favor—everyone in financial circles was aware of the scandal engulfing Albert Industries and Winton's role as the family's legal defender. The manager nodded sympathetically.
"Of course. I'll just need to verify your authorization and Mr. Pierce's biometric confirmation."
This was the moment of truth. The documentation passed initial inspection, but then came the fingerprint scanner. I placed my thumb, covered with the synthetic print, on the reader and held my breath.
One second. Two. Three.
The scanner flashed green. "Confirmed. Please follow me to the vault."
Relief washed over me, though I maintained Patricia Pierce's composed exterior. The manager led me through a series of security doors to the vault containing the private client boxes.
"Box 4721," he confirmed, using his key in conjunction with the one I'd been given by my contact—a master blank programmed to adapt to the lock it encountered. "I'll give you privacy. Please use the consultation room when you're finished."
The moment he left, I opened the heavy metal box, revealing its contents: a waterproof case containing multiple USB drives, paper documents, and a small leather-bound journal. Everything went into my specialized scanning bag—a device that would create digital copies of all documents while appearing to be an ordinary handbag.
As I worked, I glanced through some of the papers, confirming we'd found what we needed: Winton's insurance policy against Albert. Financial records showing the foundation's connection to trafficking operations. Offshore account numbers. Names of conspirators in government and law enforcement.
And most damning of all, a handwritten confession from Albert regarding Madeline Pierce's death, apparently preserved by Winton as the ultimate leverage.
*I never intended for it to escalate. M. threatened exposure. Physical confrontation ensued. Accident with paperweight. W. must never know details. Boat house foundation as agreed. Compensation through partnership stake. No discussion of this matter henceforth.*
The confession was dated July 17, 2009—the day Madeline Pierce had disappeared.
I photographed everything, ensuring multiple backups, then carefully replaced the contents exactly as I'd found them. Winton could never know we'd accessed his insurance policy.
The manager was waiting when I emerged from the vault. "Did you find what you needed, Ms. Pierce?"
"Yes, thank you," I replied smoothly. "Winton will be relieved."
Outside, I rejoined Elliot in the car, nodding confirmation of our success. His shoulders relaxed visibly as he wrote: *Now we have everything.*
Indeed we did. With the contents of Winton's safe deposit box added to our existing evidence, we possessed a complete picture of the Albert-Pierce criminal enterprise—from my assault and Lucas's other victims to the trafficking operation, money laundering through the foundation, and Madeline Pierce's murder.
"Time for the final phase," I said as our car pulled away from the bank. "Tomorrow, we end this."
Elliot's expression was solemn as he wrote his response: *No matter what happens to us?*
The question gave me pause. In my years of planning, I'd never seriously considered surviving my revenge. Getting justice had always been worth any personal cost. But now, seeing the determination in Elliot's eyes, I felt an unexpected responsibility—not just to complete our mission, but to ensure he had a future afterward.
"We'll try to survive it," I amended. "But yes, no matter what happens to us personally, the truth comes out tomorrow. All of it."
He seemed satisfied with this answer, turning his attention to the preparations for our final move. As we drove back to our safe house, I found myself studying his profile—this unexpected ally who had transformed from a silent, traumatized boy into a determined agent of justice.
Whatever happened tomorrow, Elliot Albert had already achieved something remarkable: he had reclaimed his voice, literally and figuratively. My revenge had somehow become his liberation.
I only hoped we both lived long enough to see it completed.
