"The transport is scheduled for tomorrow morning," Chloe whispered. "At six a. m."
Fourteen hours. I had exactly fourteen hours before my son was drugged, loaded into an unmarked van, and shipped across state lines into a padded cage.
"Print the clearance form," I commanded.
"I can't," she pleaded, tears welling in her eyes. "If my login is attached to a printed copy of that request, David will know. The system logs every print command."
"Chloe, print it," I said, slapping my palm flat against the marble, the loud crack echoing through the empty waiting room. "If you let them drug a terrified child and lock him in a facility because you were afraid of a lawsuit, you are no better than the man who forged my name."
A tear spilled over her eyelashes. She hit a key on her keyboard. Seconds later, the heavy hum of the laser printer under the desk broke the silence. She snatched the warm paper from the tray, folded it twice, and slid it under the glass partition.
"Take it," she choked out. "Take it and leave. I’m hitting the panic button in exactly sixty seconds."
I grabbed the folded paper and shoved it into the inner pocket of my leather vest. I didn't say thank you. There was no room left for gratitude, only the cold, sharp mechanics of survival. I turned and walked out of the sliding glass doors, the blast of the Nashville heat hitting me as the alarm siren began to wail inside the clinic behind me.
I had the forgery. I had the medical transport order. I had the undeniable evidence that David Sterling was orchestrating a fraudulent, forced confinement of a minor.
But as I swung my leg over the motorcycle and shoved the key into the ignition, I realized the hardest truth of all. Evidence didn't stop a private transport van at six in the morning. Paperwork didn't break down the reinforced doors of a gated mansion.
If I wanted to save Leo, I couldn't just expose David. I had to walk straight into the center of his fortress and tear the walls down myself.
CHAPTER 3: The Sedation Protocol
The drive back to Harrington Oaks felt entirely different than the drive away from it. There was no hesitation left in my blood, no lingering doubts about whether I was overstepping my bounds or misreading a misunderstanding. The hollow ache in my chest had been replaced by a cold, mechanical clarity.
David Sterling had built a fortress of wealth and legal paper to take my son away, and he had done it using my forged name. Now, I was going to burn it down.
When I reached the towering iron gates of the neighborhood, I didn't bother pulling up to the visitor keypad. I cut the engine down to a low, heavy idle and waited in the shadow of a massive oak tree near the shoulder. Three minutes later, a commercial pool-cleaning van rolled up to the resident lane. The driver punched in a code, and the heavy wrought-iron gates began to swing inward.
I rolled on the throttle, dropping the clutch and surging forward. I tucked the heavy motorcycle right against the van’s rear bumper, slipping through the gap just as the gates began their slow, automated return. The security guard in the glass booth stood up, his mouth opening to shout, but I was already accelerating down the manicured, winding curve of Wrenfield Lane. He could call the local police again if he wanted to. By the time they arrived, it wouldn't matter.
I pulled the bike straight into David’s sweeping circular driveway, ignoring the pristine expanse of brick, and parked the front tire inches from the bottom step of the mansion’s porch. I killed the engine. The sudden silence in the neighborhood was deafening, broken only by the ticking of the cooling exhaust pipes.
I stepped off the bike, pulled the folded medical clearance form from my vest, and walked up the steps. I didn't knock. I didn't ring the bell. I grabbed the heavy brass handle of the front door, found it unlocked, and shoved it open.
The air-conditioned air of the foyer hit me, smelling of citrus polish and expensive lilies.
"Who's there?" a sharp, authoritative voice called out from the formal living room to the left.
I walked through the entryway and stepped into the room.
David Sterling was sitting in a high-backed leather armchair, wearing a crisp slate-gray dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Across from him on a velvet sofa sat a younger man in navy blue clinical scrubs, holding a tablet. On the glass coffee table between them rested a leather binder and a small, sterile-looking silver lockbox.
David’s head snapped up. The polite, aristocratic mask he wore for the world instantly dissolved into a twisted mask of absolute fury. He shot out of his chair, his face flushing dark red.