THE CAST OF LIES: My Patient Arrived With Purple Fingers And A 103.8° Fever, But Her Husband Claimed "It's Just The Flu"—When I Cut It Open, The Horror Inside Exposed His 5-Year Secret

The storm raged with violent fury as we approached Gary International Airport.

Through the security fence, I could see the massive twin-engine Gulfstream jet roaring down the runway, spray flying from its wheels as its engines spooled up to maximum takeoff thrust.

Two police cruisers attempted to block the runway, but the heavy jet clipped the rear of one vehicle with its wingtip, sending the cruiser spinning across the tarmac as the plane lifted its nose gear into the dark sky.

“He’s airborne!” Miller roared, slamming his fist against the steering wheel. “Damn it!”

Suddenly, my phone buzzed violently in my jacket pocket.

It was an incoming video call from an unlisted satellite number.

I answered and hit the speaker button.

The screen lit up with Daniel Harris’s face, illuminated by the soft cabin lights of the private jet. He was sipping a glass of vintage scotch, a cruel, mocking smile plastered across his face.

“Did you really think you could stop me, Dr. Jenkins?” Daniel chuckled softly through the speakers. “You’re an ER doctor. You fix broken bones and stitch lacerations. You don't take down men like me.”

“We found the bunker, Daniel,” I said, my voice steady and cold as ice. “Chloe is safe. Hannah is in federal protective custody. We have the micro-drive, the murder footage, and every offshore account you ever touched.”

Daniel’s smile vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated hatred.

“It doesn't matter,” Daniel spat. “In four hours, I’ll be outside United States airspace. The money in my Swiss accounts is more than enough to buy a new identity, a new life, and a private army in South America. You won nothing, Doctor.”

“Look out your left window, Daniel,” Detective Miller said, leaning over the phone.

Daniel frowned, turning his head toward the jet’s oval window.

Cruising fifty yards off the Gulfstream’s left wing were two F-16 Falcon fighter jets belonging to the United States Air National Guard, their afterburners glowing bright orange in the midnight storm.

Over the aircraft’s emergency transponder frequency, the booming voice of an Air Force commander crackled through Daniel’s cockpit:

“Unidentified Gulfstream N-884-DH, this is the United States Air Force. Your flight clearance has been revoked under executive federal authority. Cut your engines and return to Gary International immediately, or you will be intercepted with lethal force. You have thirty seconds to comply.”