Chapter 6 - Northlake
Northlake Biologics sat behind mirrored glass on the west side of the river, clean enough from the outside to look innocent.
Nothing truly dangerous ever needs to look dangerous.
Prescott drove. Elena sat beside me in the back. Adrian remained at the estate under guard. Dr. Shah stayed with the boys.
I brought no army.
Five people attract less attention than fifty, and by then I knew the greatest threat was not a firefight. It was delay.
Northlake’s night supervisor met us in the lobby and refused access.
“Mr. Mercer, I don’t care who owns what percentage of our parent company. This facility is regulated.”
Prescott placed a court preservation order on the desk.
I had lawyers too.
The supervisor’s confidence weakened.
Then Elena set Genevieve’s archive number beside it.
His face changed completely.
“Where did you get that?”
“My wife.”
He swallowed.
“Wait here.”
He disappeared through a security door.
Prescott leaned toward me.
“He’s calling someone.”
“Let him.”
Three minutes later, the fire alarm sounded.
No smoke.
No heat.
Just a building-wide evacuation warning.
The supervisor did not return.
We moved.
Prescott’s people at the rear entrance detained two technicians carrying insulated transport cases toward a loading dock. One case contained animal samples.
The other carried human research material with labels scraped off.
Elena looked sick.
“Children?”
One technician shook his head frantically. “I don’t know. I swear.”
Prescott took their access cards.
The brass key Adrian gave us opened the sublevel elevator after Elena entered Genevieve’s archive number.
When the doors parted, cold air hit my face.
Rows of cryogenic storage tanks filled the room.
A red light blinked above one section.
Elena pointed.
“B cage.”
The brass key fit.
Inside were smaller locked drawers, each labeled by accession code.
We found Genevieve’s number on the third row.
The drawer was empty.
For one second, I could hear nothing but my own heart.
Then Elena touched the metal rail.
“Wait.”
A paper tag had been wedged beneath the drawer.
TRANSFERRED — 06/14 — F.Y.
Franklin Yates.
Destination: MERCY ANNEX, ROOM 7.
Prescott swore.
“Mercy Annex was demolished.”
Elena shook her head. “The hospital wing was demolished. The research basement stayed.”
I called Dr. Shah.
“We don’t have them.”
She was silent.
“Where next?”
I read the transfer slip.
“Mercy Annex.”
“Go.”
Behind us, a door opened.
Franklin Yates walked into the storage room with two men.
He wore no doctor’s coat.
No stethoscope.
Nothing that made him look like the man who had once kissed my sons’ foreheads at a birthday party.
“Lawson,” he said.
Prescott stepped in front of me.
Yates raised both hands.
“I’m not here to fight.”
“Then start talking.”
He glanced at Elena.
“You should have stayed gone.”
She stared at him. “Genevieve told me you would say that.”
His jaw tightened.
“You have no idea what Genevieve did.”
I moved around Prescott.
“She tried to save her children.”
“She jeopardized research that could have saved hundreds.”
“By exposing theft?”
“By misunderstanding necessity.”
There it was.
The language men use when they have already forgiven themselves.
Yates walked toward the empty drawer.
“The pediatric cell program was underfunded. Insurance companies would not pay. Universities were terrified of liability. Private money kept it alive.”
“By using samples without consent.”
“Sometimes consent is a luxury.”
Elena’s face hardened. “Not when the samples belong to children.”
Yates ignored her.
“Genevieve discovered we had redirected stored material to keep the program functioning. She threatened to expose everything.”
“Did you cut her brake line?”
His eyes met mine.
“No.”
“Did Adrian?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
Yates smiled sadly.
“You still believe every tragedy has a single villain.”
I stepped closer.
“Where are my sons’ samples?”
He looked at the transfer slip.
“Mercy Annex.”
“Are they still there?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you here?”
“To stop you from taking them without understanding what they are.”
He removed a folder from his coat and placed it on a counter.
“Your sons’ samples were not merely archived blood. Genevieve enrolled them in a personalized immune-cell preservation study when they were infants. The cells were expanded and cryopreserved because of their inherited risk markers.”
I looked at Elena.
She shook her head. This part was new to her.
Yates continued. “Those cells could be used to accelerate a rescue immunotherapy now. Dr. Shah knows that.”
“Then why didn’t you use them?”
His face changed.
“Because one set was contaminated.”
My stomach dropped.
“And the other?”
“Viable.”
“One child.”
“Yes.”
The room went silent.
I thought of Jonah and Blythe holding hands between their beds.
“Which one?”
Yates looked at the floor.
“Blythe.”
I wanted to break something.
Instead I asked the only question that mattered.
“How do we save Jonah?”
“There is a paired research line from a compatible donor.”
“Who?”
Yates looked at Elena.
She went still.
“No,” she whispered.
I turned toward her.
Yates spoke softly.
“Elena Ward.”
She shook her head again.
“That’s impossible.”
“You volunteered during the Latham trial,” Yates said. “Routine donor registry. Genevieve knew you were a partial match to Jonah. That’s why she kept you close after the clinic.”
Elena looked wounded.
“She was my friend.”
“I didn’t say she wasn’t.”
I studied her face.
“If you can help him—”
“I will.”
No hesitation.
No bargaining.
Nothing.
Yates laughed once.
“That simple?”
Elena turned on him.
“He’s six.”
Something in her voice erased every other argument.
Prescott’s radio crackled.
A message from the estate.
He listened, then looked at me.
“Adrian’s gone.”
“What?”
“Two guards down. Alive. He escaped through the old east tunnel.”
I took out my phone.
A text had arrived from an unknown number.
You want the samples? Come alone.
Below it was a photograph.
Adrian stood inside Mercy Annex beside a cryogenic case.
And in his hand was Genevieve’s necklace.
I looked at Elena’s throat.
Empty.
She touched the place where it had been.
“He took it from me at the house.”
Another message appeared.
One case. One truth. One hour.
May you like
Then a third.
Ask Franklin who really ordered the crash.
