Chapter 6 - The Weight of the Badge
The white beams of the tactical flashlights sliced through the swirling mist of the corridor, catching the edges of the patterned hotel wallpaper and painting the dust motes in stark, blinding relief.
“Clear right!” a gruff voice barked from the stairwell landing.
I didn't hesitate. I grabbed Dileia’s arm, yanking her back through the broken doorway of Room 412 just as a volley of heavy combat boots slammed onto the carpet outside. My heart was a battering ram against my ribs, but my mind felt clinical, ice-cold, stripped of all the fatigue that had plagued me back in Chicago.
Dileia clutched the corporate tablet tightly against her chest, her knuckles stark white. Her breath came in shallow, panicked hitches, but she didn't scream. She looked down at the glowing screen, where the secondary tracking beacon—the one signaling her brother Leo’s private airstrip coordinates—blinked with steady, merciless persistence.
“They aren't private security,” Dileia whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the distant hospital sirens drifting through the shattered window. “That gear... those communication codes. That’s Meridian’s private corporate asset-recovery team. They’re legal contractors with immunity clauses built into federal defense logistics.”
“Which means local law enforcement won't touch them,” I replied, my eyes darting around the dark, ransacked hotel room. I stripped the heavy woolen blanket off the bed, wrapping it quickly around my left forearm to create an improvised guard against broken glass or a knife slash. “And if they take us, we won't end up in a police holding cell. We’ll vanish into an administrative loophole.”
A heavy boot slammed against the outer door frame, splintering the lock with a loud crack.
“Dr. Mercer! Ms. Sutter!” a calm, amplified voice called out from the hallway. It was the same man in the grey suit, his voice echoing off the drywall. “You’re only complicating a very simple corporate audit. Step into the light with the tablet, and we can ensure your brother’s employment record remains unblemished.”
Dileia flinched at her brother's name. A fierce, protective anger flashed across her face, completely washing away the terror. She looked at the tablet, then up at me, her eyes dark and resolute in the amber ambient light.
“He’s lying,” she said, her voice dropping an octave. “Leo didn't just sign off on a valve. He sent me an encrypted voice memo three days ago—before the flight—saying he found systemic pressure flaws in the entire 737 rudder assembly, and that Meridian’s executives were ordering him to falsify the safety logs or lose his pension.”
The pieces clicked together with terrifying clarity. Flight 412 hadn't experienced a random mechanical failure or a simple medical emergency. It was a targeted stress test of a flawed airframe, and Arthur Pendelton—the auditor carrying the master ledger—had been scheduled to review the true data in Washington.
“We aren't going to hide,” I said, stepping toward the window that looked down onto the alleyway two stories below. “We’re going to the airstrip.”
“That’s twenty miles across the harbor,” Dileia said, her brow furrowing. “In this weather, the bridge traffic is gridlocked.”
“We’re not taking the bridge,” I said, grabbing the heavy brass lamp from the bedside table and smashing it against the remaining glass of the window. “The hotel backs right up to the municipal marina. There’s a commuter water taxi running skeleton shifts through the storm.”
May you like
Before the heavy footsteps could cross the threshold of the room, I shoved the remaining window pane outward, hoisted myself onto the sill, and reached back for Dileia’s hand.
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