Chapter 8 - THE SWITCHED SALINE BAGS
Julian’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn't press the issue. He turned toward the door, gesturing with his hand.
"The kids are exhausted, Lawson," Julian said, his tone filled with fake, practiced sympathy. "Blythe’s blood pressure dropped during the ambulance transfer from Presbyterian. I have the new specialized saline protocols ready in the West Wing bay. I need to hook up the drip myself before the midnight shift."
Lawson looked down at the crumpled paper beneath his hand—the report detailing how the synthetic heavy-metal toxin was administered through daily IV saline bags.
"Prescott," Lawson said quietly.
"Yes, Boss?"
"Take Miss Ward to the secondary guest quarters on the third floor," Lawson commanded, his dark eyes never leaving Julian’s face. "Keep two guards at her door. Nobody enters that room without my personal voice authorization."
Elena looked at Lawson, catching the silent, desperate instruction in his eyes. She offered a single, microscopic nod of her head, stepped back between the armed guards, and allowed Prescott to escort her out of the office through the side service door.
Once the side door clicked shut, leaving only Lawson and his half-brother in the vast mahogany office, Lawson walked around his desk.
"I want to see the West Wing bay, Julian," Lawson said, his voice dangerously soft. "I want to watch you hang the new saline bags myself."
May you like
Julian smiled—a tight, professional smile that did not reach his eyes. "Of course, Lawson. Anything to give you peace of mind."
They walked side-by-side down the long, carpeted corridors of the Oak Park mansion toward the private medical suite. As they walked, Lawson’s right hand rested casually inside his jacket pocket, his fingers wrapped tightly around the cold steel handle of his custom tactical knife.
