Chapter 5 - Fire in the WardThe reinforced glass doors of the ambulance bay shattered into a million glittering shards as Prescott’s front vehicle rammed through them, the heavy suburban sliding to a screeching halt inside the sterile loading corridor.
Before the vehicle had even fully stopped, I threw my door open, clutching the portable life-support rig, and sprinted toward the service elevators.
Gunfire cracked down the adjacent hallway—suppressed, professional, deadly. The Directorate’s cleanup crew had arrived.
"Boss! We’ve got incoming!" Prescott’s voice barked over the tactical radio, punctuated by the heavy thump-thump-thump of a submachine gun returning fire. "They’re trying to cut us off from the south stairwell! Take the maintenance lift!"
I didn't answer. I pivoted hard left, shoulder-checking a heavy fire door and spilling into the service corridors of the hospital's upper floors. The sterile smell of antiseptic was instantly replaced by the metallic tang of ozone and hot blood.
When I reached the isolation wing, the heavy glass partition protecting Jonah and Blythe’s room had been starred with bullet holes.
Dr. Yates was cowering behind the nurse’s station, his white coat stained with blood, holding his hands over his head. Two dead men in unmarked tactical black gear lay sprawled across the linoleum floor, neutralized by the hospital’s private security detail—men I had secretly stationed there a week ago.
"Lawson!" Yates gasped, scrambling to his feet. "They came through the roof rappelling lines. They were looking for the medical files... they were looking for the twins!"
I ignored him, kicking open the door to Jonah and Blythe’s room.
The monitors were screaming a frantic, high-pitched cacophony of red warning lights. Jonah was semi-conscious, his eyes wild with terror, while Blythe had slipped into an unresisting, shallow-breathing stupor.
"Dad..." Jonah whimpered as I rushed to his bedside, ripping the intravenous lines free with practiced, brutal efficiency and snapping them into the portable life-support unit.
"I've got you, buddy. We're going for a ride," I said, lifting his weightless, fragile body into my arms and strapping him securely into the transport cot.
I turned to Blythe, her skin turning an alarming shade of gray, her pulse rate dropping on the monitor.
"Yates! Help me with her!" I roared.
Yates snapped out of his shock, rushing forward to help me transfer Blythe into the second transport pod. "Lawson, her blood pressure is crashing! If we move her now, her heart will stop!"
"Then we restart it," I barked, grabbing the manual resuscitator bag and squeezing it rhythmically. "Prescott! Secure the hallway! We’re heading out!"
Just as we wheeled the cots toward the shattered entrance, a cold, synthetic voice echoed over the hospital’s public address system.
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Attention, Mr. Mercer. Surrender the children and the micro-SD card. Resistance is mathematically futile. Your estate is currently surrounded, and your security details have been neutralized.
I froze. The voice belonged to a man I knew all too well—Arthur Cross, the high-ranking director of the Directorate, and the man who had ordered the hit on Genevieve.
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