Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary at Lake Lotawana
The Lake Lotawana property didn't exist on public property registries under the name Abraham Yates. It was held by an offshore trust owned by Heartland Freight’s parent entity.
Surrounded by a ten-foot iron fence and buried deep within pine woods, the single-story stone estate looked like a rustic hunting lodge from the outside. On the inside, it was a high-tech fortress equipped with independent power generators, satellite communications, and a fully functional trauma suite built during the height of the COVID pandemic to protect the Yates executive team.
The heavy steel gates opened automatically as Abraham’s pickup approached.
Two armed security guards in plain black tactical gear stepped out from the guardhouse, guiding the truck into the heated indoor garage.
Before the engine had even stopped turning, a team of three medical professionals rushed forward with a gurney.
Leading them was Dr. Arthur Reynolds—a silver-haired, sixty-year-old former military surgeon who had been on Heartland’s private retainer for over fifteen years.
"Abe!" Reynolds shouted, opening the truck's passenger door. "What the hell happened?"
"Sledgehammer," Abraham said concisely, stepping out of the driver's side and walking around the vehicle. "And forced injections. Fentanyl or heavy sedatives. He’s been in a damp room for at least four days."
Reynolds checked Wyatt’s pupils, his face darkening instantly. "Get him on the board! Move! Carefully with that right leg!"
Wyatt was lifted onto the gurney, groaning as the paramedics wheeled him rapidly down the wide corridor toward the medical suite.
Abraham followed closely behind, his hands shoved deep into his denim pockets, his eyes fixed on his son’s pale, sweat-streaked face.
Inside the surgical room, bright LED panels flooded the area with sterile white light. Reynolds cutting away Wyatt’s torn T-shirt and sweatpants with trauma shears, revealing the horrific extent of the abuse.
Wyatt’s right knee was swollen to the size of a melon, bruised a deep, sickening purple-black. Needle puncture marks lined both his forearms, many of them inflamed from unsterile hypodermic needles.
"Jesus Christ," Reynolds muttered, gently palpating the joint. "The patella is shattered into multiple fragments, and there’s severe soft-tissue trauma. They weren't just trying to hurt him, Abe. They were trying to cripple him permanently so he couldn't walk out of that house."
Abraham stood at the foot of the bed. His face was entirely unreadable—a mask of carved marble that had survived labor strikes, corporate takeovers, and the death of his beloved wife, Mary.
"Can you fix it, Arthur?" Abraham asked softly.
"I can reconstruct the joint with titanium pins and plate, but he’ll need three surgeries and six months of intensive physical therapy," Reynolds said, setting up an IV line with broad-spectrum antibiotics and fluid replacement. "The bigger issue right now is the toxicity in his blood. I'm running a full tox screen, but his liver is struggling."
Wyatt reached out a trembling, weak hand from the bed. "Dad..."
Abraham instantly stepped forward, grasping his son’s hand in both of his broad, calloused palms. "I'm right here, son."
"Don't... don't call the local police," Wyatt whispered, his bloodshot eyes filled with panic. "Irving... Irving owns the precinct captain in Chestnut Hill. Captain Miller. He’s on Irving’s payroll. If you report this to the local cops, they’ll destroy the evidence... they'll say I was an addict who hallucinated..."
Abraham leaned down, his eyes locking onto Wyatt’s with an intensity that made the room grow silent.
"Local police?" Abraham said quietly, a cold, dark smile touching the corners of his mouth. "Wyatt, I didn't spend fifty years building an empire to ask a crooked precinct captain for permission to protect my family."
The double doors of the medical suite swung open.
A tall, sharp-featured man in a impeccably tailored three-piece charcoal suit stepped into the room, holding a leather briefcase.
It was Marcus Vance—managing partner of Vance, Sterling & Associates, the most feared corporate litigation firm in the Midwest.
"Good evening, Abraham," Vance said, adjusting his glasses. "Happy New Year."
"Is it recorded, Marcus?" Abraham asked without turning around.
Vance opened his briefcase and pulled out a sleek tablet. "Garrison forwarded the audio file from your phone fifteen minutes ago. My digital forensics team has already verified the acoustic signature, isolated Sabrina Palmer’s voice, and cross-referenced her statements with hospital records and property deeds."
Vance looked down at the tablet, his expression hardening. "Abe... what she admitted to on this tape isn't just aggravated assault and kidnapping. It’s attempted capital murder for financial gain."
Abraham slowly let go of Wyatt’s hand and stood up to his full six-foot-two height.
"Marcus," Abraham said, his voice echoing off the sterile walls. "I don't just want them in prison. I want Irving Palmer, Sabrina Palmer, and everyone who stood in that living room drinking my liquor stripped of every dime, every house, and every shred of dignity they possess."
"Where do we start, sir?" Vance asked.
May you like
Abraham looked at his watch. It was 1:45 a.m.
"We start with the money," Abraham said. "Block every transfer. Freeze every account. And let them wake up tomorrow morning thinking Wyatt is still in that basement."
