Doctors gave my six-year-old twins ten days to live, and for the first time, every dollar, weapon, and ounce of power attached to my name meant absolutely nothing. / Chapter 7 / 10

Chapter 7 - Blood and ConcreteI hit the heavy steel door of the sub-basement stairwell at a dead sprint, my boots sliding across the slick concrete floor. The air down here was thick with the smell of damp laundry detergent, diesel exhaust, and fresh cordite.

Ten yards ahead, near the industrial loading dock, a brutal firefight was raging.

Prescott Hale was dug behind a concrete pillar, his tactical rifle barking in rhythmic, controlled bursts. Two Directorate operatives in black armor lay motionless near the exit ramp, while a third was pinning down Dr. Yates, who was frantically wheeling Jonah and Blythe’s transport cots toward an idling armored van.

"Prescott! Cover!" I roared, raising my Sig Sauer and firing three rapid shots into the chest of the operative targeting Yates.

The man in black crumpled backward, his rifle clattering against the concrete.

"Boss! We've got more coming down the ramp!" Prescott yelled, tossing a fresh magazine into his rifle without looking back.

A heavy, armored tactical vehicle punched through the exterior garage doors of the sub-basement, its high-beam headlights blinding us in a wall of harsh white light. A heavy machine gun mounted on top of the vehicle began to chew up the concrete around us, sending sparks and shrapnel flying in every direction.

"Get the kids in the van! Now!" I screamed over the deafening din of gunfire.

Yates didn't hesitate. He heaved Blythe’s cot into the back of the armored suburban just as a round clipped his shoulder, sending him stumbling backward with a sharp cry of pain.

"Yates!" I grabbed his uninjured arm, hauling him up. "Get in and drive! Take them back to the estate bunker!"

"What about you?!" Yates yelled, clutching his bleeding shoulder.

"I'm going to level the playing field."

I sprinted away from the van, diving behind a row of industrial linen carts as the armored vehicle’s machine gun stitched a line of holes right where I had been standing.

I pulled a military-grade flash-bang grenade from my tactical vest, pulled the pin with my teeth, and hurled it with pinpoint precision through the open driver’s side window of the enemy tactical vehicle.

Flash! BOOM!

A blinding white light engulfed the cab, followed by a concussive shockwave that shattered the vehicle's bulletproof windshield into a spiderweb of cracks. The driver slumped forward, slamming his foot down on the accelerator. The unmanned armored truck swerved hard, crashing violently into a concrete support pillar and erupting into a thick cloud of black smoke and roaring flames.

The remaining Directorate operatives panicked, breaking formation and retreating toward the shadows of the upper ramp.