Chapter 10 - The Ghost in the Vent
“Hannah! Don't move!” Colonel Vance’s voice echoed down the corridor as he slid to a halt beside me, his rifle raised. He took in the empty room, the blood on the sheets, and the pulsing red tracker with a look of pure devastation. “They took her.”
“They’re still inside,” I whispered, my eyes locked on the ceiling vent grille hanging loose by a single screw. The metal was vibrating.
Without a word, I leapt onto the overturned medical bed, reached up, and violently wrenched the metal grille free, tossing it clattering to the floor. I pulled a compact tactical flashlight from my vest, clicking it on and thrusting the beam up into the dark, labyrinthine metallic shaft.
Dust motes danced in the white beam. Twenty feet down the narrow tunnel, a small, pink-slippered foot dangled over a vertical junction drop.
“Lily!” I cried out, grabbing the edge of the ductwork and hauling myself upward into the cramped metal pipe.
“Major Nolan, get back down here! That’s a suicide run!” Colonel Vance shouted from below.
I ignored him, crawling fast on my hands and knees through the dark, soot-filled conduit. The air was thin, heavy with the metallic smell of fresh coolant and explosives. I pushed through a sharp ninety-degree bend, my tactical harness scraping against the riveted metal walls.
Ahead of me, the shaft opened into a wider maintenance junction.
Standing in the center of the junction was a man in a heavy black tactical uniform with no insignia. In his arms, he carried a small, bundled form wrapped in a thermal blanket—a shock of curly brown hair poking out over his shoulder. Lily.
“Stop right there!” I barked, sliding to a halt and leveling my pistol directly at the man’s chest.
The man paused, his back to me. Slowly, he turned his head over his shoulder. The harsh beam of my flashlight caught the side of his face—revealing a jagged, distinct burn scar running from his jawline up behind his ear.
It was the same face from a photograph I had seen two years ago in a classified intelligence dossier of missing contractors presumed dead in Eastern Europe.
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“It’s been a long time, Hannah,” the man said, a cold, mocking smirk twisting his scarred lips as he shifted Lily slightly in his arms. “Your husband was weak. But you? You always were a survivor. Let’s see how long you survive this.”
Before I could pull the trigger, he pressed a small detonator clipped to his vest, and the floor beneath my knees suddenly blew apart in a blinding flash of white-hot fire and concussive force.
