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Chapter 4 - The Extraction Protocol"Prescott," I spoke into my tactical comms, my voice laced with iron. "Get the armored convoy ready. We’re moving the twins."

Static hissed over the channel. "Boss, Dr. Yates explicitly said moving them from the sterile isolation wing could trigger a total organ collapse within minutes. Their immune systems are flatlined."

"If they stay at the hospital, the Directorate will find them within the hour now that Elena has triggered their perimeter trackers," I snapped back, watching the terminal flash a warning light indicating an external signal ping originating from somewhere in downtown Chicago. "They’re tracking the micro-SD card's access attempt. We have less than twenty minutes before a strike team hits St. Jude’s."

A heavy pause hung on the line. Then Prescott’s voice came back crisp and resolute. "Transport vehicles are warming up. I'm taking lead car. We leave in five."

I turned to Elena. "Stay here in the bunker. If I don't return in two hours, use the manual override to wipe the servers and destroy the hard drives."

"Lawson, wait," Elena grabbed my sleeve. "You can't just walk into a hospital and take dying children. The federal marshals, the medical board—"

"Federal marshals don't run this city, Elena," I interrupted, pulling a customized Sig Sauer P320 from the armory locker and checking the magazine. "My name does. And if anyone tries to stop me from saving my children, they'll find out why men call me a monster."

Ten minutes later, a convoy of three matte-black, bulletproof Chevrolet Suburbans tore out of the underground garage of the Chicago estate, punching through the twelve-foot security gates as rain sheeted down across the slick asphalt.

Inside the lead vehicle, I clutched a portable medical life-support unit packed by Dr. Yates himself—a desperate, high-risk rig designed to keep the twins stable during transit.

The rain blurred the neon lights of downtown Chicago into long, bleeding streaks. My phone buzzed in my tactical vest. It was Dr. Yates.

I swiped the screen. "Yates, talk to me."

"Lawson, where the hell are you? Security just reported three unmarked vans breaching the hospital’s perimeter gates on the west side! Men in tactical gear—they’re moving toward the isolation wing!"

"They're after the children," I snarled, slamming my fist against the dashboard. "Tell your nurses to lock the internal doors and get under their desks. We are three minutes out."

"Lawson, if you pull those kids off life support to move them, they won't survive the trip!" Yates shouted over the roar of background alarms blaring through his phone.

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"They won't survive five minutes if the Directorate gets their hands on them!" I disconnected the call, leaning forward toward the driver. "Step on it, Miller. Through the ambulance bay doors if you have to."

The suburban engine roared, surging past a red light and hurtling down the ramp toward St. Jude’s Hospital emergency entrance just as the night sky lit up with the muzzle flashes of an active firefight.

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