Chapter 5 - The Convoy Under Fire
The heavy iron blast doors of the underground tunnel groaned open, revealing the raging Atlantic tempest outside. Rain fell in horizontal sheets, driven by sixty-mile-per-hour winds off the ocean.
Our two-vehicle convoy tore out of the cliffside entrance, tires screaming on the slick asphalt as we surged onto the winding coastal road.
Inside the rear cabin of the second Suburban, the air was cold and tense. The lead paramedic was hyperventilating in the corner, clutching his medical jump kit, while Emily knelt beside Noah’s pod, her eyes glued to the vitals monitor.
“Pulse is dropping again,” she said, her voice steady despite the vehicle violently swaying around a sharp bend. “Heart rate down to seventy. The muscarinic blockade is failing. The toxin is binding to the autonomic receptors faster than the atropine can metabolize.”
“How much time does he have?” I asked, reloading my sidearm while watching the side mirrors.
“Fifteen minutes before he enters complete refractory bradycardia,” she replied, reaching for another vial. “He needs an oxime compound—pralidoxime chloride. If we don’t reactivate the acetylcholinesterase, the atropine will reach toxic limits and kill him itself.”
“I don’t have an oxime in my bag!” the paramedic cried out, terrified. “We only carry standard pediatric crash carts!”
“I know where it is,” Emily said, looking up at me. “My father’s original research facility wasn't liquidated. Graves converted it into a private bio-tech lab in Lynn, seven miles south of here. That’s where the synthetic variant was manufactured. That’s where the antidote is stored.”
Before I could reply, the rear window of our Suburban exploded into a thousand spiderweb fractures.
A massive black pickup truck slammed into our rear bumper with bone-shattering force. The impact threw the paramedic forward against the partition, knocking him unconscious. Noah’s monitor let out a high-pitched alarm as the vehicle swerved violently toward the ocean drop-off.
“Hold on!” the driver screamed, wrestling the wheel.
A second impact buckled our rear quarter panel. Through the fractured glass, I saw two masked men leaning out of the pickup’s cab, raising heavy assault rifles.
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They weren't trying to capture anything. They were trying to shove our three-ton armored truck off the rocky cliffs into the Atlantic surf fifty feet below.
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