Chapter 3 - The Doctor’s Trap
"Stay here with the boys," Vincent commanded, pulling his coat back to reveal the heavy steel of his firearm.
"No," I said, grabbing his arm before he could turn away. "If you go down there guns blazing, Blake walks out or the real mastermind stays hidden in the shadows. We need leverage. We need proof that holds up outside of a basement interrogation."
Vincent stared at my hand on his arm, then up into my eyes. For a fraction of a second, the cold syndicate ruler vanished, replaced by a desperate father willing to trust the only person who had seen through the smoke and mirrors.
"What do you propose?" he asked.
"Let him walk in. Let him think his plan is succeeding," I whispered rapidly, mapping out the architecture of the foyer in my head. "He’s arrogant. Narcissists like Blake love to gloat before the kill. We mic up the study, let him confess into the open air, and broadcast it to every phone in his network."
Ten minutes later, the heavy oak doors of Vincent’s main office clicked open.
Dr. Harrison Blake strode in, flanked not by his usual medical assistant, but by two men in identical charcoal suits carrying heavy aluminum briefcases. They didn't look like doctors; they looked like executioners.
Vincent sat behind his massive mahogany desk, a glass of scotch in front of him, his face carved from absolute stone.
"Vincent," Blake smiled smoothly, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses. "I was told there was an incident with the housekeeper. I came as soon as I heard. The stress of these past eighteen months must be unbearable for you."
"Save the bedside manner, Harrison," Vincent said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "The house is empty of staff. Just you, me, and your little friends."
Blake’s smile didn’t drop, but his eyes flicked toward the two armed men flanking him. "You’re taking this the wrong way. I’m here to offer a solution. A final protocol. We can transfer the boys to a private clinic in Zurich tonight."
"Zurich?" Vincent scoffed, sliding a manila folder across the desk. "Is that where you keep the antidote to the acetylcholinesterase inhibitor you've been pumping through their bedroom vents?"
The room went dead silent. The hum of the antique grandfather clock in the corner suddenly sounded deafening.
May you like
Blake’s expression hardened, the facade of the benevolent physician melting away entirely. "Ah. So the cleaning lady talked. Or perhaps our clever little nanny figured out what eighteen board-certified specialists missed."
"It didn't take a genius, Doctor," I stepped out from the shadow of the heavy velvet drapes near the bookcase. "It just took someone who wasn't on your payroll."
