Chapter 8 - The Confrontation in the Kitchen
The wooden door frame splintered with a deafening CRACK.
The door flew open, slamming against the kitchen wall. Lauren stepped through the threshold into the bright fluorescent light, the steel tire iron held high in her right hand, her wet floral dress plastered to her skin.
"GET AWAY FROM HER!" Lauren roared.
Lawson froze, his eyes widening in complete shock as he turned toward the door.
Before he could react, I rushed in behind Lauren, swinging my heavy brass torch light straight into the side of Lawson’s head.
THUD.
The metal struck his temple. Lawson let out a sharp cry of pain, stumbling backward into the counter, sending glass vials and syringes shattering across the linoleum floor.
Kathleen screamed, scrambling off her chair, clutching her stomach as she backed into the corner near the refrigerator.
"LAUREN?!" Kathleen shrieked, her face pale with terror. "How did you find this place?!"
"Where are my other embryos?!" Lauren demanded, taking a terrifying step toward Dr. Lawson, who was groaning on the floor, holding his bleeding head. "WHERE ARE THEY?!"
Heavy, rushing footsteps echoed down the hallway behind us.
Vance—the armed security guard—pulled open the kitchen door, his right hand reaching inside his dark jacket for a shoulder holster.
"Vance! Shoot them!" Lawson screamed from the floor, coughing blood.
BANG.
A loud explosion shattered the kitchen air.
Vance gasped, stumbling forward, his eyes wide with disbelief as he dropped his weapon.
Behind him in the hallway stood Mark.
His face was covered in rain and tears, his hands shaking uncontrollably as he held Vance’s secondary stun gun, which he had pulled from the Mercedes in the driveway. The high-voltage prongs were buried deep into Vance’s chest, sending blue electrical sparks arcing through the guard's jacket until the heavy man collapsed unconscious onto the floorboards.
Mark dropped the stun gun, looking at Lauren with wild, desperate eyes.
"I got him," Mark panted, struggling for air. "Lauren... I got him..."
Lauren didn't praise him. She didn't even look at him.
She walked straight past Lawson’s groaning form, stepping up to Kathleen, who was cowering in the corner.
Lauren set the tire iron down on the counter. She reached out, her hands surprisingly gentle, and rested her palms lightly against Kathleen’s pregnant belly.
For the first time in six months, Lauren felt the tiny, distinct kick of a healthy baby boy moving beneath the fabric.
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Tears welled up in Lauren’s eyes—not tears of grief, not tears of exhaustion, but tears of pure, fierce maternal claim.
"He's mine," Lauren whispered softly to Kathleen, her voice as firm as solid bedrock. "He was always mine."
