He avoided the main gate, circling to an old section where ivy covered a low stone fence, and went over it without a sound. The clinic was where Mason said — beneath the main house, reached through the wine cellar behind a concealed door.

Hayden let himself in with the code he’d taken off Mason’s phone.

The air inside smelled of disinfectant and cold metal. Modern surgical equipment, sealed crates, medical files, a row of incubators. And in the center, a portable incubator with a tiny infant inside, wrapped in white, breathing in shallow little pulls, fighting to stay alive.

He read the wristband, and his knees nearly went. Infant Boy Rosales-Stanton.

His son was alive.

Hayden pressed his hand to the plastic panel. “Hey there, little man,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Your dad’s right here.” The baby’s hands moved weakly, reaching for warmth.