Chapter 3 - Crossfire in the ICU Wing
The muzzle flash painted the hallway in brief, violent strokes of white and blue. I dropped low, rolling behind a carved marble console table just as a second burst of suppressed rounds chewed through the wood, sending antique ceramic fragments flying across the floor.
“Prescott!” I barked into my radio comms, keeping my eyes fixed on the bend in the corridor. “Status report! Where are you?”
Static hissed from the earpiece, followed by the heavy, ragged sound of gunfire in the distance. “North wing stairwell! They hit us with an EMP pulse—our internal monitors are fried! They’re bypassing security to get to the medical ward, boss! They want the children!”
The blood roared in my ears. They didn't just want to eliminate Elena; they were after Jonah and Blythe.
I popped up from behind the marble console, double-tapping two rounds down the hallway. A muffled grunt echoed from the darkness, followed by the heavy thud of a tactical boot hitting the floor. One down.
I didn't wait to check. I sprinted toward the pediatric ICU wing, my boots sliding slightly on the polished hardwood. The heavy glass doors protecting my children’s quarantine room loomed ahead like a beacon of fragile hope.
As I rounded the final corner, my heart froze.
A second operative in black gear was already standing at the glass panel of Jonah and Blythe’s room, holding a specialized hydraulic breaching tool against the reinforced titanium frame. Inside the sterile chamber, Jonah sat bolt upright in his bed, his pale face smeared with exhaustion, clutching a stuffed bear to his chest while Blythe wept silently beneath her blanket.
“Step away from the glass,” I growled, leveling my Sig straight at the back of the operative’s helmet.
The man paused, his gloved hand hovering over the breaching trigger. Slowly, he turned his head, the green glow of his night-vision goggles reflecting off his dark visor. He didn't drop his weapon. Instead, he reached up with his free hand and tapped a small comms button on his collar.
A synthesized, electronically distorted voice filtered through his mask.
“Put the gun down, Lawson,” the voice hissed. “You can’t protect them from their own genetics. The compound in their blood belongs to us. Lower your weapon, or the gas goes into the ventilation grid right now.”
My finger tightened on the trigger, the hammer cocked back and ready to release a lethal slug through the mercenary’s skull. But my eyes flicked upward toward the ceiling vents, where a small red indicator light flickered ominously above the quarantine ward.
They had wired the HVAC system. If I pulled the trigger, my children would suffocate in seconds.
“You want the formula?” I said, keeping my voice dangerously steady while my mind calculated every angle of attack. “You want Project Chimera? It’s not in the room. It’s in my study downstairs. Bring your employer down there, and we’ll talk.”
The mercenary let out a low, mechanical laugh. “We don't negotiate with ghosts, Mr. Mercer. And as for the formula... we already downloaded the core database from your home server three minutes ago.”
Before I could process the words, a sharp, piercing alarm wailed across the estate’s secondary power grid.
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The operative jammed his thumb down on the breaching tool. The titanium frame of the ICU door groaned, shrieked, and blew inward with a violent crash of shattered glass.
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