Chapter 7 - The Laundry Chute
At the third-floor landing, the stairwell door clicked open with a muffled squeak as I tested the latch.
I slipped through into a narrow, dimly lit service corridor lined with industrial linen bins and spare medical equipment. This was the back-of-house artery used by hospital staff to move linens and waste away from the pristine public wards.
Footsteps echoed from the stairwell above me, growing louder, accompanied by Marcus Vance's cold, calculating commands.
"Sweep the service hall. She's on foot, carrying an infant—she can't have moved past this floor without tripping the sector alarms."
I ducked behind a towering stack of blue laundry carts just as two security guards in black tactical vests jogged past my hiding spot, their flashlights cutting erratic beams across the ceiling tiles.
My heart hammered so violently I was certain they could hear it over the hum of the ventilation system.
When their footsteps rounded the corner toward the pharmacy annex, I looked around frantically for a way out. Directly ahead was an oversized stainless-steel industrial laundry chute, its heavy spring-loaded door gaping open for the morning sorting shift.
It was a drop straight down into the basement sorting facility, bypassing all security checkpoints, elevators, and main lobby doors.
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It was steep, dark, and terrifying. But staying on this floor meant execution or captivity for my son.
I pulled the wool blanket tighter around the baby, tucked his head securely against my neck, and crawled headfirst into the metal opening.
