20. Rowan
Chapter twenty
Rowan
D orian's voice dragged me from the first real sleep I'd managed since Rook died.
"Rowan. We have a problem."
The warehouse hummed around me—servers cycling, Charlie's claws scratching, and the distant whisper of Seattle traffic. I rolled over in Matthew's guest bed, squinting at numbers that refused to focus: 3:39 PM.
"Miles missed another check-in," Dorian said from the doorway. "We got one at 2:30, but that was an hour ago. The GPS tracker is stationary at Harborview."
I lurched upright, bare feet hitting the cold floor. "Show me."
Dorian's workstation blazed with surveillance feeds and tracking data. Miles's location pulsed like a heartbeat on the hospital schematic—Room 314, Clinical Research Wing. Static. Unmoving.
"Any visual confirmation of exit?"
"Negative. I've got feeds from three angles on the main entrances. He went in. He didn't come out." Dorian's fingers danced across multiple keyboards. "Emergency protocols activated forty minutes ago with the first missed check-in."
"Have you called—"
"Marcus should be here in ten minutes. Michael and Alex are driving back from Oregon." Dorian pulled up another screen showing highway traffic cameras. "ETA ninety minutes, but Michael's pushing it hard."
Charlie appeared at my elbow, pressing his warm bulk against my leg. Dogs knew when their pack was incomplete.
Dorian looked at me. "What's your assessment?"
"Worst case scenario. Miles walked into the same trap that killed Iris."
The warehouse door chimed. Marcus strode into the room. "Status report." He settled at the table, pen ready. "What do we know and what are we assuming?"
"Miles entered Harborview at 1:58 PM for a consultation with Dr. Celeste Harrow," I said. "Missed his 3:00 and 3:30 PM check-ins. GPS shows he's still in the building, Room 314, Clinical Research Wing."
Marcus scribbled notes in his precise handwriting. "Nature of consultation?"
"Therapeutic research. Something about new trauma treatment protocols." I watched Marcus's expression sharpen. "He said it didn't break our agreement like my meeting with Patricia did. It was about his work. I should have asked more questions."
"Self-recrimination is tactically useless," Marcus said with clinical efficiency. "Current priorities: establish contact, verify well-being, coordinate extraction if necessary. Dorian, what are our communication options?"
"I've tried calling his phone every ten minutes. Goes straight to voicemail. Could be turned off, in a dead zone, or confiscated." Dorian pulled up cellular tower data. "Last ping was 2:34 PM, same location."
Miles had been radio silent for over an hour. In my experience, an hour was long enough for interrogation, coercion, or worse.
Marcus picked up his phone. "I'm calling the hospital directly."
Marcus's institutional credibility opened doors that my podcaster status couldn't touch. As I listened to him navigate phone trees and departmental transfers, dread pooled in my stomach.
"Yes, I'm inquiring about a Dr. Miles McCabe, a family member there for a consultation... Dr. Celeste Harrow... Yes, I'll hold."
"They're checking," Marcus said, covering the phone.
He spoke over the phone again. "Clinical research participation?"
Marcus held his hand over the phone and whispered to me, "They say he's participating in research protected under Institutional Review Board protocols. Family access may be restricted."
"Restricted how?" I stepped closer to the phone.
"Standard clinical research protections. Participant confidentiality, study integrity, and federal oversight requirements."
He listened again. "When is completion expected?" Marcus met my eyes while he spoke. "Transfer me, please."
Another pause. "Dr. Lemon, this is Marcus McCabe with Seattle Fire Department. I'm inquiring about visiting rights for a family member participating in Dr. Celeste Harrow's trauma research study."
He whispered, "Later, we're going to talk about another instance of going rogue."
Marcus asked over the phone, "How long is the active phase?"
I reached out for Marcus's wrist, shaking my head. He pulled the phone away from his mouth.
"They're protecting it," I whispered. "The hospital genuinely believes this is legitimate research. Meridian has created perfect institutional cover."
Marcus completed his call. "Dr. Lemon, thank you for your time. We may follow up through other channels."
He set the phone down. "They have IRB approval. Federal oversight. Participant consent documentation. Everything appears legitimate on paper."
3:58 PM glowed on Dorian's monitor. Twenty minutes had evaporated.
I paced the warehouse floor. "It was only a consultation. He wouldn't have volunteered for a study."
Charlie tracked my movement, tail low with anxiety. When pack members disappeared, you found them and brought them back. You didn't wait for permission.
Unfortunately, in this case, we weren't a pack of wolves. We were civilians facing medical bureaucracy expertly manipulated to shield criminal activity.
Marcus opened his legal pad to a fresh page. "If they have legitimate institutional protection, we need to approach this systematically. Legal channels, federal oversight, and medical ethics complaints, if necessary."
"How long does that take?" I stopped pacing to face him.
"Days. Maybe weeks if they have strong legal representation."
"Miles doesn't have days. Based on their previous patterns, permanent damage begins within hours."
Matthew stepped out of the bathroom, rubbing a towel over his hair.
"Is there a problem?" he asked and glanced at Dorian.
Marcus summarized. "The hospital believes Miles is a willing research participant. They're protecting him from us."
"Extraction options?"
"Limited," I said. "Federal oversight means security is tighter than normal. The hospital staff genuinely believe they're protecting important research."
"So we can't treat them as adversaries," Matthew declared. "They're not criminals—they're professionals doing what they think is right."
The moral complexity hit hard. Fighting Meridian meant fighting doctors, nurses, and security guards who believed they were protecting breakthrough trauma therapy.
Marcus looked up from his pad. "We need someone with the authority to override institutional protections."
"I have an old friend from Virginia, Agent Victoria Sadler," I said, finding her number. "She worked on corporate fraud when I was in behavioral analysis. If anyone will listen to conspiracy theories from a washed-up podcaster, it's her."
The phone rang four times before connecting.
"Ashcroft? Fucking hell, I haven't heard from you in three years. Please tell me you're not calling about another unsolved murder that the Bureau supposedly covered up."
"Victoria, I need five minutes of your time. It's about medical fraud, human trafficking, and federal agencies being used to protect criminal activity."
She was silent for a moment. Her tone was professional when she spoke again. "You have my attention. Make it count."
I breathlessly explained our predicament.
"Slow down, Ashcroft. Federal protection protocols for medical research are standard procedure when—"
"When the research involves breakthrough treatments for veteran PTSD, right?" I cut her off. "When the facility has received credible threats from domestic extremists who want to sabotage therapy that could help thousands of soldiers?"
She was silent again. Marcus and Matthew watched me pace, their expressions sharpening as they recognized the implications of my words.
"How did you know that?" Victoria asked, her voice cooling by degrees.
"That's precisely what they'd tell you to get federal protection. You're not guarding breakthrough research—you're providing security for human experimentation disguised as legitimate therapy."
"That's a serious accusation, Rowan. You're suggesting federal agents are—"
"I'm suggesting federal agents are doing their jobs based on falsified intelligence. Someone fed you a story about protecting vital PTSD research from terrorist threats. Someone with impressive credentials, institutional backing, and bulletproof documentation."
I heard a keyboard clicking through the phone.
"Multiple federal agencies have reviewed Dr. Celeste Harrow's research.
National Institutes of Health funding, Institutional Review Board approval, oversight from Johns Hopkins, Mayo Clinic, and UCLA trauma centers. This isn't some back-alley operation."
Something Miles said before he left came back to me. "The Johns Hopkins connection—did a Dr. Gwendoline Humphries provide a testimonial?"
More keyboard sounds. "Dr. Humphries submitted a comprehensive evaluation supporting the research protocols. Highly enthusiastic about the breakthrough potential."
Matthew caught my attention, pointing toward Dorian's workstation, where multiple screens showed incoming calls. Unknown numbers and blocked caller IDs, communication patterns that suggested someone was desperately trying to reach us.
"Victoria, I need you to do something for me. Call Dr. Humphries directly and ask her to repeat that endorsement in real time. Don't use any contact information from your case file—look up her direct line through Johns Hopkins."
"Why would I—"
"Because I think you'll discover that Dr. Humphries has been trying to contact someone about this research all afternoon. Someone who might help her correct a terrible mistake."
Dorian gestured frantically. He'd answered one of the incoming calls, and his expression suggested the conversation was urgent.
"Victoria, I have to go. But please—make that call. Find out what Dr. Humphries really thinks about Celeste Harrow's research."
I ended the call and moved toward Dorian, who was scribbling notes while speaking rapidly into his headset.
"Yes, Dr. Humphries, he's right here." Dorian looked up at me. "It's Dr. Gwendoline Humphries from Johns Hopkins. She's been trying to reach Miles all afternoon."