Chapter 6 - The Cliffside Stand
“Frank!” I yelled into the comms unit. “Pincer maneuver on the straightaway!”
*“Copy, Boss!”*
Frank slammed his brakes in the lead vehicle, allowing our Suburban to slide forward, then violently swung his heavier truck across the two lanes, cutting off the pickup’s pursuit line.
Metal shrieked against metal. Sparks illuminated the dark, storm-swept coastal highway as Frank’s vehicle collided with the attackers, grinding them against the granite cliff face on the inland side of the road.
I rolled down the shattered rear window, leaned into the freezing rain, and fired four consecutive rounds into the engine block and front tire of the hostile truck. The pickup spun out, slamming into a utility pole and exploding into a brief fireball that was instantly swallowed by the downpour.
Inside our truck, the alarm on Noah’s monitor went shrill.
*Flatline.*
“No!” I lunged across the cabin, dropping my weapon.
Emily was already moving. She ripped the incubator’s canopy open, ignoring the cold air rushing into the vehicle. She didn't hesitate. With two fingers placed precisely on the center of Noah’s tiny breastbone, she began rhythmic, lightning-fast compressions.
“One, two, three, four, breath,” she chanted, her voice cutting through the scream of the storm. She squeezed the tiny bag-valve mask with her left hand, then resumed compressions with her right. “Come on, Noah. Breathe. Don't let them win. Breathe!”
Blood from her wounded forearm dripped onto the baby’s pale chest, mixing with the rain misting through the broken glass.
My hands hovered over them, useless. In boardrooms, in port terminals, in backroom political deals, a single word from me could ruin lives or move millions of dollars. Here, in the back of a battered truck on a dark road, I was completely powerless.
“Take over compressions!” Emily ordered me, not looking up.
“What?”
“Take over! Two fingers! One-third the depth of his chest! One hundred beats per minute! Do it now!”
I dropped to my knees beside her. My hands, hardened from decades of violence and authority, trembled violently as I placed two fingers on my son's chest. I pressed down, feeling the terrifying fragility of his tiny ribs.
*One, two, three, four.*
Emily grabbed a long needle from her kit, snapped an ampoule with her teeth, and drew up a micro-dose of pure epinephrine.
“Keep pumping, Michael! Don’t stop!”
She found the umbilical venous catheter access that the medics had secured earlier, flushed the port, and slammed the epinephrine directly into his central circulation.
I kept pressing. *One, two, three, four.*
“Come back to me, Noah,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Noah, look at your father. Come back.”
Ten seconds. Twenty seconds.
The monitor beeped once. A weak, irregular spike appeared on the screen. Then another.
Noah’s chest heaved beneath my fingers, and a tiny, pitiful wail broke through the sound of the rain.
I collapsed forward, burying my forehead against the metal frame of the crib, tears finally washing the blood and soot from my face.
May you like
Emily let out a long, ragged exhale, slumping against the armored door. “He’s back. But the epinephrine bought us ten minutes at most. We need that lab, Michael. Now.”
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