Chapter 3 - The Trap is SprungWe moved through the mansion's sprawling corridors in absolute silence. Nathan led the way, his hand resting casually inside his jacket where a custom-holstered Sig Sauer waited, while I followed half a step behind, my eyes scanning the shadows.
The medical wing, located in the far east pavilion, was usually a sterile sanctuary of white tile and high-end diagnostic equipment. Tonight, it looked like a staging ground for a ghost ship.
The heavy double doors were propped open. Inside, Dr. Malcolm Reeves stood by a stainless-steel counter, aggressively stuffing glass vials and medical ledgers into a reinforced aluminum briefcase. Standing beside him was a heavy-set man in a dark security uniform—Vance, the head of Nathan’s estate detail.
"Dr. Reeves," Nathan’s voice echoed off the tile walls, smooth and deadly as a sliding switchblade. "Leaving so soon?"
Reves froze mid-motion. The pen in his hand slipped, clattering against the metal counter. When he turned around, his professional arrogance had evaporated, replaced by a frantic, sweating panic.
"Nathan," Reeves stammered, forcing an unconvincing smile. "Thank God. The boys are critical. I told you, every minute we waste here—"
"Cut the crap, Malcolm," Nathan interrupted, stepping into the room with me right at his shoulder. He didn't draw his weapon, but the sheer predatory weight of his presence made Vance, the security chief, shift nervously on his feet, his hand drifting toward his belt.
"Mr. Coleman, you're overwrought," Reeves said, trying to regain his clinical authority. "You're listening to an unqualified domestic worker over twenty years of medical board credentials. Look at the data—"
"The data is a lie," I stepped forward, cutting him off. I reached into my pocket, pulled out a small glass sample vial I had scraped from the vent earlier, and set it squarely in the center of the surgical tray. "Just like the diagnosis."
Reeves stared at the vial, his pupils dilating. "What is that?"
"It's a synthetic acetylcholinesterase inhibitor combined with a lipid-soluble paralytic," I said, my voice cutting through the sterile room. "It mimics late-stage muscular dystrophy when inhaled in micro-doses over two years. But under a mass spectrometer, it leaves behind a distinct chemical fingerprint: a proprietary stabilizing agent manufactured exclusively by a biochemical lab in Zurich called Apex Bio-Pharm."
Reeves turned chalk white. He looked from me to Nathan, and then his eyes snapped toward Vance.
"Vance," Reeves choked out, his voice cracking. "Do something."
Vance didn't draw a gun to protect the doctor. Instead, Vance’s eyes darted toward the exit, his hand gripping his service weapon.
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Nathan saw it all. With a speed that defied his heavy build, he crossed the room, grabbed Vance by the collar of his tactical vest, and slammed him against the reinforced glass window with a force that rattled the entire frame.
"How much were they paying you, Vance?" Nathan whispered, his face inches from the guard's terrified eyes. "How much to let a ghost poison my sons right under my roof?"
