20. Rowan #2
I grabbed the headset. "Dr. Humphries, this is Rowan Ashcroft. Dr. McCabe is currently—"
"Mr. Ashcroft, thank God. I saw reports that federal agents were guarding a trauma study at Harborview.
When I realized it was Celeste's facility…
" Her voice bordered on panic. "Dr. McCabe contacted me yesterday about collaborative research.
I thought it was routine professional networking.
Then I saw armed federal agents protecting breakthrough trauma therapy research, and I knew. "
"Knew what?"
"That she was finally implementing the protocols. The ones I helped legitimize through my testimonial." Her breath caught. "Mr. Ashcroft, I've been a coward. A collaborator. But I can't let another researcher walk into what I helped create."
She explained that her testimonial recording session lasted three hours. They distilled her words into a two-minute clip that made it sound like she'd personally implemented the protocols with remarkable success.
"Mr. Ashcroft, I never treated a single patient using Harrow's methods. The edited testimonial suggests I've transformed hundreds of lives."
"Why didn't you correct the record?"
"I tried. My department chair received a call from Meridian's legal team, suggesting that retracting my testimonial could impact Johns Hopkins' federal research funding.
They had documentation of my voluntary participation in the testimonial process.
" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Mr. Ashcroft, they threatened my entire department. "
"Dr. Humphries," I said, "we believe Dr. McCabe is currently undergoing whatever protocols you helped legitimize. Time is critical."
"No." Her voice cracked. "How long has he been in their facility?"
"Two hours."
"Mr. Ashcroft, based on the pharmaceutical documentation I reviewed, neurological changes become irreversible after four to five hours of continuous intervention. You need to get him out of there immediately."
Matthew looked up from his medical supplies. "Can the process be reversed?"
"If caught early, yes. Benzodiazepine antagonists, antipsychotics, and intensive supportive care.
Still, the window closes rapidly." Dr. Humphries's academic composure finally shattered completely.
"I helped create a torture protocol disguised as breakthrough therapy.
Now someone you care about is experiencing it firsthand. "
The warehouse door chimed. Michael strode through carrying a tactical bag. Alex followed with Luna on a tight leash.
"Status," Michael demanded, dropping his bag and scanning the room for immediate threats.
"They've got Miles, and they are—" I couldn't say the rest.
Michael's expression shifted from tactical assessment to something approaching horror. "My brother. Are we fighting the entire system here?"
"Not the entire system," I whispered.
Dr. Humphries spoke again. "Mr. Ashcroft, I've been sending messages and making calls as we speak. Medical ethics committees, NIH oversight boards, and institutional review coordinators. There are people in the system who can override Meridian's protections if they understand what's happening."
"How fast can they move?"
"Academic bureaucracy isn't known for speed, but medical emergencies can accelerate everything.
If I can demonstrate immediate patient harm.
.." Her voice trailed off. "I need to contact the FBI agent coordinating protection.
Make her understand that the research she's guarding violates every ethical standard. "
"Speak with Agent Victoria Sadler. I just spoke with her."
"Mr. Ashcroft, I will put my professional reputation on the line to save Dr. McCabe. It's the least I can do after I unwittingly enabled his capture."
"Rowan," Alex said quietly, "what do you need from us?"
"We need the FBI to understand that their intelligence sources are compromised."
Two minutes later, my phone buzzed with an incoming call. It was Agent Sadler.
"Ashcroft, I just spoke with Dr. Humphries. We need to talk."
I stepped into the guest room. "What did she say?"
"Dr. Humphries painted a disturbing picture. But I need you to understand—the intelligence we've been operating on suggests you're not a reliable source."
I pressed the phone tighter against my ear. "What kind of intelligence?"
"Financial records showing payments from foreign sources to your podcast. Communication intercepts suggesting coordination with domestic extremist networks. Psychological evaluations indicating obsessive behavior and a possible break from reality following your partner's death."
Someone had built a comprehensive dossier designed to discredit everything I'd discovered. "Victoria, those are fabrications—"
"Maybe. But they're from sources the Bureau considers reliable." I heard papers rustling.
"Victoria, how long have you been operating under these assumptions?"
"The Intel package arrived six weeks ago. We've been monitoring potential threats to breakthrough veteran therapy research since then." I detected a crack in her professional tone. "Ashcroft, if Dr. Humphries is right about systematic academic coercion..."
"Then every piece of intelligence you've received came through compromised sources."
Before she could respond, Victoria shared, "Dr. Humphries is requesting direct communication with the supervising agent. I'll call you back."
When I returned to the living room, Michael was unpacking his tactical gear and listening to Marcus coordinate with Seattle Fire Department contacts through his radio.
My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number:
Unknown: Dr. McCabe's research participation has been extended due to promising initial results. Estimated completion tomorrow evening. Visitor access remains restricted pending federal security review.
I showed the message to the room. Matthew's medical expertise kicked in immediately.
"Tomorrow evening means they're planning twenty-four to thirty hours of continuous pharmaceutical intervention.
" He pulled out his phone and began calculating drug metabolism timelines.
"Neural pathway changes become permanent after prolonged exposure.
We're not only racing against time—we're racing against irreversible brain damage. "
Dorian pulled up Miles's GPS tracking data on his largest monitor. The signal had moved deeper into Harborview's basement levels, areas marked as high-security medical isolation.
"He's been relocated," Dorian announced. "Medical isolation ward, Sublevel 2."
4:53 PM.
My phone rang again—different number.
"Ashcroft here."
"Mr. Ashcroft, this is Dr. Eileen Lemon from Harborview Research Ethics. I understand there are concerns about Dr. Harrow's current study protocols."
The administrator who'd dismissed Marcus's earlier call was now reaching out directly. Someone's pressure was working.
"Dr. Lemon, we believe Dr. McCabe is being held against his will under false pretenses of voluntary research participation."
"Mr. Ashcroft, I've been reviewing the documentation more carefully following some concerning inquiries from NIH oversight committees. There are irregularities in the approval process that require immediate investigation."
"What kind of irregularities?"
"The IRB committee that approved Dr. Harrow's protocols hasn't met in six months. The approval signatures appear to be forgeries." Dr. Lemon's professional composure cracked. "Mr. Ashcroft, if Dr. McCabe is participating in research that wasn't properly approved..."
"Then federal agents are protecting criminal activity disguised as legitimate medical research," I finished.
The institutional machinery was shifting, but it took time we didn't have. Miles was trapped in basement isolation, undergoing pharmaceutical manipulation that grew more dangerous with each passing minute.
The warehouse door suddenly opened. Ma McCabe stepped through carrying two canvas grocery bags. She assessed the room in seconds—Michael's tactical gear spread across the dining table, Marcus coordinating through emergency radio channels, and Matthew organizing medical supplies.
She stared directly at me. "Where's my son?"
Everyone stopped talking.
"Ma," Marcus began, "we're coordinating with federal—"
"I didn't ask about coordination. I asked where Miles is." She set the grocery bags on Matthew's counter. "And don't tell me he's participating in voluntary research. Miles wouldn't disappear for two or three hours without contact unless someone prevented him from calling."
"I've got Sadler on the phone again," I whispered.
Ma McCabe gestured for my phone. I complied. "Agent Sadler," Ma began, "I'm Miles McCabe's mother. I raised four boys who risk their lives to save others. I understand the difference between legitimate protection and bureaucratic games."
A pause.
"Agent Sadler, do you have children?"
We all waited.
"Then you understand that mothers know when their children are in danger. Miles has never missed a family check-in during a crisis. Never. If he could call me, he would call me. Someone is preventing my son from contacting his family. That's not voluntary research participation."
Ma McCabe handed the phone back to me. Victoria was already gone.
Through Dorian's monitors, I watched data streams flowing between federal agencies. Someone was rapidly verifying everything they'd been told about protecting breakthrough research. The institutional machinery was questioning its assumptions.
My phone buzzed with another update from the unknown number:
Unknown: Patient showing excellent therapeutic response. Medical team requests permission to extend intervention phase for optimal outcome achievement. Estimated completion delayed to Wednesday morning.
"They're extending the timeline," I announced to the room. "Now claiming completion won't be until Wednesday morning."