Chapter 124. Oscar goes to cheif Argo
The corridor leading to Apex Laboratory’s lower entrance reeked of chemical solvents, iron, and old blood. It was hidden beneath what looked like an abandoned pharmaceutical distribution warehouse—complete with rusted trolleys, crates labeled "Medical Supplies," and cameras that followed movements like silent vultures.
Argo adjusted the ratty hood of his oversized coat and hunched his shoulders forward, letting the damp cold make him look smaller, more pathetic. Grease streaked his cheeks, and the fake grime on his nails was so convincing he could smell it. His face was partially hidden behind the collar of the coat, and the cracked foam container in his hand smelled like cheap noodles and fish paste.
A metal door buzzed open. No one spoke.
The guard inside, face obscured by a gas mask and helmet, waved him in wordlessly. Argo shuffled through, murmuring something unintelligible and looking down at his feet.
Far above, hidden behind reflective glass in a nearby building, Detective Mara squinted through a pair of high-powered binoculars. She chewed her gum slowly and then broke into a grin.
"Goddamn," she whispered. "Our Chief missed his calling. If we don’t blow this lab to hell, I’m sending his footage to Cannes."
Inside the sterile, humming core of the lab, Doctor Naehr stood with arms behind his back, gazing at a specimen floating in a cylindrical tank filled with glowing blue serum. His long silver hair gleamed under the overhead lights, and the black lenses of his glasses reflected lines of data scrolling down a nearby monitor. His face, however, was a mask of irritation.
"Another disturbance," he muttered. "Why do these deliveries keep happening during my calculations?"
He turned as Argo was ushered in by one of the masked guards.
"Who the hell is this?" Naehr snapped.
"Food delivery, sir," the guard replied. "Scheduled on your assistant’s tab. Said you hadn’t eaten since last night."
Doctor Naehr’s black eyes narrowed as he took in the man before him—hunched over, visibly dirty, with an unpleasant odor wafting from his tattered sleeves.