Chapter 6 - The Pulse of War
The smooth, confident voice of Marcus Vance hissed through the secure line, carrying a calculated poison that made the ambient noise of the hospital ICU fade into absolute silence.
“You’re a monster,” I whispered into the phone, my voice dropping into an icy register that barely registered as human. “If anything happens to my daughter, I won't just hand you over to the federal authorities. I will hunt you down until there is nothing left of your company or your name.”
A soft, mocking chuckle hummed through the earpiece. “Save the righteous theater, Captain. You’re a soldier; you understand collateral damage better than anyone. We don't want a bloodbath, and frankly, we don't want your daughter dead. We simply want the encryption key to the flash drive sitting in the evidence locker—or rather, the copy you wisely kept hidden in your tactical duffel bag back home. You have until midnight to upload the decryption payload to our secure IP address. If you try to loop the police or federal marshals into the relay, the ICU monitoring feed at Memorial General goes dark permanently.”
Before I could answer, the line went dead with a sharp, electronic click.
Inside Room 412, the chaotic shouting of the medical team suddenly shifted tone. The frantic rhythm of the CPR compressions stopped.
“We have a rhythm!” the attending physician yelled, sweat dripping from his chin as he stared at the monitor. “Sinus rhythm returning! Charge was successful! Get her back on the ventilator!”
I slammed my phone back into my pocket and pushed through the glass doors, my chest heaving. The doctor looked up, wiping his brow with the back of his sleeve.
“She’s stabilized, Mr. Callahan,” he said, breathing heavily. “Her heart is beating on its own again, but she’s still critically fragile. Whatever caused that spike in stress nearly stopped her heart entirely. You need to keep her calm.”
“She’s not calm, Doctor, and neither am I,” I replied grimly. I turned around to see Detective Miller hurrying down the hallway toward me, holding his radio tight against his ear.
“Callahan,” Miller said, coming to a breathless halt in front of me. “The precinct just caught a major break. A patrol unit found the silver sedan parked behind an abandoned warehouse near the industrial park. But the car is empty, and the tracking ping on the suspect’s phone just lit up heading east toward the county airfield.”
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“They aren't running to an airfield, Detective,” I said, my jaw tightening as I looked back through the glass at my sleeping daughter. “They’re trying to force a trade. And they just made it personal.”
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