Chapter 4 - Blood in the Courtyard
Frank’s voice exploded through the wall intercom: *“Boss! North gate! Margaret tried to run in the utility Rover—she had an inside man open the service barrier! We intercepted, but we’ve got hostile vehicles breaching the perimeter!”*
Julian Graves wasn't waiting to see if the poison worked. He was sending a cleanup crew to make sure neither Noah nor I survived the night.
I kicked open the dressing room door. The nursery was in chaos; the paramedics had Noah secured in a portable pediatric transport pod, complete with a battery-powered ventilator and cardiac monitor.
“Take the freight elevator down to the subterranean garage,” I ordered the medical crew. “Frank! Fall back to the armored Suburbans!”
“What about the chopper?” Emily asked, grabbing Noah’s medical chart and a kit bag containing backup ampoules of atropine.
“A transport helicopter is a flying coffin in a storm like this, especially against snipers with thermal scopes,” I said, drawing my customized Sig Sauer P226 from beneath my armpit. “We move by ground through the service tunnels under the seawall.”
We moved fast. The estate’s basement was a concrete labyrinth built into the granite bluffs overlooking the ocean. The smell of damp stone and motor oil greeted us as we reached the hidden six-car garage.
Two custom, bomb-resistant black Suburbans idled, their exhaust fumes venting through floor grates.
Suddenly, the concrete stairs above us blew apart.
A concussive shockwave knocked the trailing paramedic to the floor. Dust, splintered wood, and smoke billowed down the stairwell, illuminated by the tactical strobes of four men in unmarked combat gear descending rapidly with suppressed submachine guns.
“Contact!” Frank yelled from behind the lead vehicle, opening fire with his rifle.
The roar inside the enclosed subterranean garage was deafening. Spent brass clattered against the concrete floor. The glass of the upper landing shattered under Frank’s return fire, sending two attackers tumbling down the steps, dead before they hit the ground.
One of the remaining mercenaries raised a weapon, aiming directly at the exposed plastic canopy of Noah’s transport pod.
I didn't think. I stepped into the line of fire, firing three double-taps through the smoke. The shooter’s chest caved under the heavy caliber rounds, his weapon discharging harmlessly into the ceiling as he collapsed.
Emily was already on the ground, shielding the incubator with her entire body. A piece of flying shrapnel had sliced her forearm, blood soaking through her torn sleeve, but her hands remained locked around Noah’s oxygen valve, protecting the line from being torn free.
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“Get them in the second truck!” I roared, pulling her up by the uninjured shoulder. “Frank, take point! We break out through the seawall tunnel onto Route 127!”
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