Chapter 3 - Crossfire in the Concourse
"Federal agents! Lower your weapon, Officer Reyes!" the lead man barked, his voice carrying an icy, artificial authority that didn't match the cheap plastic badge he flashed for a fraction of a second.
"Show me real credentials or I will put you down!" Reyes shouted back, his stance rigid, his arms locked as he aimed dead-center mass. Nova sensed the lethal tension in the air, dropping low to the ground and unleashing a guttural, terrifying growl that rattled the glass panels of the nearby duty-free shop.
The second suit didn't flinch at the dog. Instead, he pulled a suppressed compact pistol from his jacket with terrifying fluency.
Bang.
The silenced shot punched through the acoustic ceiling tiles right above Reyes' head, showering them both in white drywall dust.
"Down!" Reyes yelled, diving sideways and dragging Nova behind a thick, reinforced concrete structural pillar just as a second round ricocheted off the polished terrazzo floor with a sharp ping.
The paramedics scrambled behind the ticketing counter, dragging Martha’s limp body with them in a desperate scramble for cover. The steady beep-beep of the portable ECG had transformed into a frantic, broken stutter.
"They're after the relay!" the lead paramedic screamed over the din, holding pressure against Martha's neck. "If they disconnect her before the upload finishes, her brain activity will flatline permanently!"
Reyes peeked around the edge of the concrete pillar. The two men were advancing methodically, moving in a textbook tactical sweep, keeping their suppressed weapons leveled at the ticketing desk. They weren't trying to capture anyone; they were executing a cleanup operation.
Reyes knew he couldn't wait for backup. The regular airport security teams were still ten minutes away, bogged down by the emergency lockdown protocols triggered by the digital override.
He looked down at Nova. The Malinois was completely focused, her ears pinned back, muscles coiled like steel springs.
"Find 'em, girl," Reyes whispered fiercely. "Take 'em down."
With a explosive burst of speed, Nova shot out from behind the pillar like a furry cannonball, hugging the floor to present a tiny target. The second suit fired twice in rapid succession, but Nova had already cleared the distance.
She slammed chest-first into the gunman’s knees, taking him down with the force of a crashing linebacker. The suppressed pistol flew out of his hand, skidding across the slick floor and coming to a rest near Reyes’ boot.
Reyes lunged forward from cover, scooped up the dropped weapon, and slammed his shoulder into the lead agent just as the man tried to pivot his gun toward Nova.
The two men crashed hard into a row of vacant passenger seats, shattering the plastic armrests into a dozen sharp shards. Reyes jammed the barrel of his service pistol under the man's chin.
"Game over. Drop the remote!" Reyes roared, spattered with sweat and drywall dust.
The agent laughed, a sickening, phlegmy sound, even with Reyes' gun pressing into his throat. "You think you stopped something, Officer? Look at the boarding gate."
Reyes glanced past the scuffle.
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At the end of the jet bridge for Flight 404, the heavy automated door was closing. And stepping out of the jet bridge into the terminal was a third man—carrying a briefcase that bore the exact same encrypted serial number pulsing from Martha's chest.
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