The hallway was empty and quiet, aside from the clatter of surgical tools behind the double swing doors of the operating room. Until footsteps approached.
Voss waited, listening as Dr. Langdon came within striking distance.
He stepped out and struck, his hand moving with practiced speed. He grabbed Langdon's arm and twisted it behind his back as he simultaneously covered his target's mouth with his other hand. The doctor's struggle was muffled until a needle entered his neck, pumping sedative into his bloodstream. His body fell slack as the drug took hold.
Voss dragged the limp doctor into a nearby janitor's closet. The soft thud of Langdon's unconscious body hitting the ground was deadened by the concrete floor.
Voss stripped him of his surgical attire and donned the gown himself, adjusting it to fit, then reached for Langdon's ID badge, and clipped it to his own collar.
He found a fresh mask from the supply shelf, pulled it over his face, and adjusted the straps. He finished his disguise with a hair net and a pair of glasses which only purpose was to match those worn by Langdon. A quick glance at his reflection on the steel paper towel dispenser hanging on the wall confirmed it--no one would know he wasn't renowned neurosurgeon Dr. Arthur Langdon.
Minutes later, Voss entered the operating room, his every movement calm, his presence confident, and his secret secure.
The surgical team was busy prepping the patient, the hum of machines and the steady rhythm of their tasks creating an air of focused tension. No one looked up as he took his position at the head of the table.
The operating lights blazed down on the patient, their harsh glow illuminating the exposed brain--a delicate web of neurons, fibers, and synaptic connections.
Voss took a scalpel from the tray. His hands were steady and his movements fluid as he made the first incision. He knew exactly what he was doing.
The team worked around him, heads down, completely unaware. They followed his lead without question.
Hours passed in steady silence, save for the occasional click of a monitor or a whispered instruction from the surgical staff. But Voss wasn't listening. He was lost in his work--slicing, nipping, cutting and cauterizing.
Finally, the surgery was finished. Voss stepped back as the team finished up their work, still none the wiser. He avoided any conversation or accolades and simply left the room into the corridor, his thoughts clear but cold. His task complete.
In the parking lot, a figure approached him from the shadows.
"The transformation?"
"Success," Voss said.
Damien Voss sat at the bar at Philadelphia National Airport, watching a local news channel as he sipped a rum and coke.
A man took the stool next to him and pointed to the television. "That's the guy from PA, right?"
Voss nodded without looking at the man.
"I can't get over this guy," the man said. "Comes into congress a hardcore lib. Has a stroke or something and next thing you know he's actually making sense." He chuckled. "How do you figure?"
Voss shrugged.
The loudspeaker rang out: "Flight 609 to San Francisco now boarding at Gate 9. Flight 609 at Gate 9. Now boarding."
Voss finished the last of his drink and stood to leave.
"Too bad every Dem can't have some kind of transformation like that, huh?"
Voss dropped a twenty on the bar. "Maybe they can," he said, as he headed to Gate 9.
