Chapter 8 - The Price of Blood
Noah’s portable monitor let out three sharp warning tones. The baby’s oxygen saturation was plunging again: 72%... 68%. The epinephrine was burning out.
“He doesn't have five minutes,” Emily whispered, her voice tightening with dread.
Graves tapped the glass with his gold signet ring. “Here is the transaction, Michael. Sign the digital transfer of the offshore port holdings on my server terminal outside. Once the block confirms on the maritime ledger, I will drop the case through the decontamination airlock. Refuse, and I press this button. The incinerator coil beneath the vials activates, and the antidote turns to ash.”
“Boss, don’t do it,” Frank muttered from the doorway, his weapon still aimed at the glass. “He’ll burn the vials the second the transfer clears.”
“I know,” I said.
I looked at Noah. His tiny face had turned a pale, ghostly lavender once more. His eyes were closed, his breathing barely a shallow flutter against the ventilator.
I looked at Emily. She met my gaze, and in that split second, an entire conversation passed between us. She didn't look like a victim seeking revenge anymore. She looked like a surgeon preparing for an impossible incision.
“I’ll sign,” I said, stepping toward the terminal console mounted beside the airlock.
Graves chuckled, relaxing his posture slightly, stepping closer to the glass partition to watch me enter my biometric credentials into the terminal. “A sensible choice, Michael. A father’s love—truly your greatest vulnerability.”
I placed my thumb on the scanner. The screen glowed green: *AUTHENTICATION ACCEPTED. TRANSFER INITIALIZED.*
Graves leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the confirmation screen of his tablet.
“Now, Emily!” I shouted.
Emily didn't run toward the glass. She lunged toward the main laboratory electrical junction box beneath the emergency shower, swinging the heavy fire axe she had stripped from the corridor wall.
The steel blade bit deep into the primary conduit cables with an explosive burst of white electrical fire.
The entire building's power grid short-circuited.
The electronic locks on the pneumatic doors hissed, losing pressure as the failsafe released. The ballistic glass partition slid open two inches as the magnetic clamps died.
Graves gasped, lunging to hit the incinerator switch, but the dead panel gave no response.
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Before he could pull a weapon from his coat, Frank fired three rounds through the opening. The bullets struck Graves in the shoulder and hip, throwing him backward across the laboratory floor, the silver briefcase tumbling from his grip.
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