"Mr. Whitaker," the doctor said, her voice dropping to a serious, hushed tone as she motioned for me to step into her sterile office. "Your son experienced an acute, severe bronchospasm triggered by airborne particulate inhalation. In plain terms: something in his immediate environment choked off his airway."

Miller’s voice came through the speaker, sounding unusually tense. "Mr. Whitaker? You have a delivery. A personal courier from the Federal Aviation Administration. They insist it has to be handed directly to you."

I frowned, stepping away from the nursery where Emily was reading a storybook to Zion. "Send him up to the front foyer."

A few minutes later, Miller escorted a uniformed FAA official into my study. The official looked nervous, clutching a thick manila folder stamped with red priority seals.

"Mr. Marcus Whitaker?" the official asked.

"I am."

"I'm sorry to bring this directly to your residence, sir, but per emergency federal transport directives issued thirty minutes ago..." He slid the folder across the mahogany desk. "Your private corporate jet fleet, along with all international shipping licenses held under Whitaker Logistics, has been grounded indefinitely pending a federal security audit."

My blood ran cold. "Grounded? On what grounds? My fleet undergoes rigorous compliance checks monthly!"

"An anonymous federal whistleblower submitted certified documents this morning alleging that your aircraft were used to transport unregistered hazardous cargo across international borders," the official replied mechanically. "Until the investigation clears, your entire global transport network is frozen."

My mind raced. Sterling was locked in a federal holding cell; he couldn't have authorized this from prison.