The antiseptic air of the hospital room was suffocating, thick with the scent of bleach and broken dreams. Clara sat on the edge of the stiff, plastic-covered bed, her shoulders shaking with the kind of primal, hollow grief that only a mother knows. She had been told her newborn daughter was gone—a tragic, unexplained complication.

"Who are you?!" Sarah demanded, refusing to lower the pipe.

"I’m the cop the department fired for investigating St. Jude's Hospital," Cole said quietly. "For three years, single mothers, undocumented women, and low-income patients have been told their babies died during childbirth. They target the women society ignores. The women who can't fight back."

"They sell them to the highest bidder," Sarah realized, nausea twisting her stomach.

"Worse," Cole said grimly. "Some are sold to wealthy, desperate families. But others... the ones with rare genetic markers? They go to private biotech firms. Your son has an O-negative, universally adaptable blood type. He’s a goldmine."

The sound of tires screeching in the motel parking lot cut the conversation short.

Cole peeked through the dusty blinds. Three black SUVs had surrounded the perimeter. Armed men were stepping out into the rain.