Chapter 4
The red strobe lights embedded in the hospital ceiling began to flash violently, casting sharp, bloody shadows across the walls. The automated sprinkler heads hissed as the building's emergency pressure surged through the overhead pipes.
"Fire drill?" Ava gasped, scrambling to her feet and pulling Nora into her arms. "No, there’s no scheduled drill today!"
"It’s not a drill," Jake said coldly. He stripped the white medical sling from his right arm with a single, violent yank, letting his injured shoulder bear its own weight. His face was devoid of expression, replaced by the detached, predatory focus of a soldier entering an ambush zone. "Grab her shoes. Put your jacket on."
"Lieutenant Navarro, you can't walk on that ankle—"
"Ava, shut up and listen to me," Jake snapped, his voice hard as tempered steel. "A fire alarm isolates the elevators and unlocks all emergency stairwell doors simultaneously. It’s the oldest breaching tactic in the manual. They aren't trying to burn the building down; they’re clearing the corridors so they can take you without witnesses."
Nora began to whimper, burying her face into the crook of Ava’s neck. "Mommy, the lights are loud! I don't like the red lights!"
"I know, baby, Mommy’s got you," Ava whispered, her voice cracking as she pressed the little girl tight. She looked at Jake, her brown eyes wide with absolute panic. "Where do we go? If the elevators are dead—"
"Stay behind me. Three paces. Don't look back, don't stop, and don't make a sound."
Jake stepped to the heavy wooden door, turned the brass handle with his fingertips, and cracked it half an inch.
The corridor was a river of chaos. Medical staff were ushering elderly patients in wheelchairs toward the central exit, their voices drowned out by the piercing klaxon. But sixty feet down the hall, moving against the flow of the evacuation, was a man in dark-gray utility overalls. He wore a surgical mask and a blue ballcap pulled low over his brow, but his posture gave him away instantly: feet spaced shoulder-width apart, center of gravity low, hands resting loosely near his waistband.
"He’s looking for room 412," Jake muttered under his breath. "Our room."
"Who is he?" Ava breathed behind him.
"Not a firefighter," Jake said. He reached down to his camouflage trousers, unbuckled his tactical knife from its covert calf sheath, and palmed the black ceramic blade. "Stay inside until I clear the corner. When I say move, run for the south stairwell."
"Jake, please—you're hurt!"
"I've killed men with worse," Jake growled softly.
He stepped out into the strobing red corridor, dragging his left foot just enough to look like a helpless, disoriented patient. He stumbled forward, coughing into the crook of his elbow, leaning against the handrail.
The man in the gray overalls spotted him. The man’s eyes narrowed above the paper mask. He altered his trajectory, heading straight for Jake, his right hand slipping inside his jacket pocket.
"Sir, you need to evacuate!" the man shouted over the siren, his accent flat, mid-Atlantic, clipped with military brevity.
"Can't breathe," Jake groaned, slumping against the wall.
The man stepped within arm's reach, his hand drawing a compact suppressed pistol from his jacket. "Sit down on the floor, Lieutenant—"
Jake exploded.
Ignoring the blinding agony in his ankle, Jake drove his shoulder upward into the man’s sternum. The attacker’s breath blasted out in a wet wheeze. Jake seized the man's gun wrist with his left hand, twisting it outward until the tendon snapped with an audible pop. The pistol clattered harmlessly onto the rubber floor tile.
Before the man could scream, Jake slammed him face-first into the metal doorframe, drove the heel of his hand into his jaw, and dropped him unconscious into a laundry cart.
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Jake grabbed the dropped weapon—a sanitized Sig Sauer with no serial numbers—and racked the slide. He reached into the man’s vest and pulled out a buzzing disposable burner phone.
"Ava!" Jake roared over the sirens. "Move!"
