“Clara and the boys,” I said.

“Give me the guard’s name,” Blake said.

“Miller,” I told the phone. “Put Blake Harrington on speaker. He is the father.”

I held my phone out between us.

“Miller, this is Blake Harrington,” Blake said, his voice steady but dangerously quiet. “Do not let anyone past that gate. I am calling the Chicago Police Superintendent right now.”

“The officers are arguing with me, sir,” Miller said over the static. “They say they have a signed directive.”

“It is a fake,” Blake said. “My mother has no legal custody. I have not signed any custody petition.”

He pulled out his second phone and began dialing rapidly.

The television producer was still staring at us from the control desk.

The studio smelled of hot dust and stale coffee.

“Get my pilot on the line,” Blake muttered into his phone as it connected to his assistant. “We need the helicopter to Teterboro. Now.”

He looked at me.

“We can be in Chicago in two hours,” he said.

“She is trying to take them before the press conference broadcast hits the local news,” I said.