Chapter 6 - The Siren’s Echo
The words hung in the sterile air of Room 412 like a bucket of ice water thrown over an open fire.
“A full strike team is already five minutes away from your clubhouse,” the operative rasped, blood bubbling slightly at the corner of his lips. “And right now... they’re burning the garage to the ground.”
Rook’s face hardened into a mask of pure, unadulterated granite. The hunting knife in his hand didn't shake, but the heavy muscles in his forearms strained until the veins stood out like thick cords. For a terrifying second, I thought he was going to drive the blade straight down.
Instead, Rook hauled the man up by his tactical collar with one massive hand, slamming him hard against the drywall right next to the bed where little Lucy lay breathing rhythmically under the oxygen tent. Eli had pulled himself up in the armchair, his eyes wide and terrified as he clutched the brown teddy bear to his chest.
“Dean,” Dr. Whitaker said sharply, his voice cutting through the tension with clinical authority. “Don't do it here. The children don't need to see blood on these walls.”
Rook’s chest heaved twice. He let out a harsh, growling breath, loosened his grip, and then drove the heavy butt of his knife handle into the operative’s temple. The man’s eyes rolled back, and he slumped unconscious onto the linoleum floor.
Rook turned to me, his gaze blazing with a fierce, terrifying focus.
“Miller,” he commanded, pulling his encrypted club radio from his breast pocket. “Call Cutter. Tell him to get every brother out of the back bay immediately. If that server unit was a telemetry beacon, they aren't coming to negotiate—they’re coming to wipe the slate clean.”
I pulled my phone out with trembling fingers, slamming the speed dial for Cutter’s secure line.
The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.
A high-pitched, metallic squeal hissed through the speaker, followed not by Cutter’s voice, but by the hollow, rhythmic thump-thump of heavy gunfire echoing over an open, roaring line.
“Cutter!” I shouted into the mic. “Cutter, do you copy?!”
The line crackled with static, and then a voice broke through—rough, breathless, and soaked in panic. “Miller! They came through the tree line in two black utility trucks! We’re pinned behind the service bays—!”
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A massive explosion roared through the phone speaker, blowing out the audio with a deafening wall of white noise, followed by absolute, terrifying silence.
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