Chapter 8 - THE FIRE IN THE VAULT
The blast wave knocked me off my feet, sending me crashing hard against the linoleum floor.
A thick, choking cloud of acrid smoke and gray dust instantly filled the sub-level vault, obscuring everything. Through the haze, the heavy steel door lay twisted and smoking on the floor.
Silhouettes stepped through the ruined threshold. Tactical gear, thermal scopes, assault rifles leveled and ready to fire.
“Clear the room!” a harsh voice barked from the smoke.
Before they could acquire targets, I scrambled up from the floor, raised my Glock through the smoke, and fired three rapid shots. The lead mercenary caught a round in his tactical vest, staggering backward into his comrades.
“Contact!”
Automatic gunfire chewed through the drywall and shattered glass vials around us, sending glass shards raining down like shrapnel.
“Dr. Yates! Did you get it in?!” I roared over the gunfire, using my body to shield Blythe’s bed.
“In! Both of them have it!” Dr. Yates yelled back, ducking behind a heavy steel table.
I looked down at Blythe.
Her eyes were closed, her chest still. The heart monitor beside her emitted a flat, agonizingly long beep.
Beep……………………
“No,” I whispered, my heart stopping. “No, no, no!”
I looked over at Jonah. His monitor was flatlining too.
The mercenaries were advancing through the smoke now, boots crunching on the debris, their weapons tracking toward the medical beds.
“Light them up,” the lead mercenary ordered.
I raised my gun to fire my last magazine, knowing it was a suicide mission, knowing I was about to die right beside my children—
Suddenly, a violent gasp echoed from Blythe’s bed.
Her back arched sharply off the mattress. Her eyes snapped open, wide and clear, gasping in air as color instantly flooded back into her pale, ashen cheeks.
Beside her, Jonah let out a sharp cry, sitting straight up and ripping the oxygen mask off his face.
The flatline monitors instantly burst into a steady, rapid rhythm of life.
Beep-beep-beep-beep!
The mercenaries froze in their tracks, their thermal scopes blinking in absolute disbelief as they stared at two children who had literally risen from the edge of death.
Before the lead mercenary could raise his rifle, a loud, mechanical roar echoed from the hallway above.
Heavy thudding steps shook the floor.
Through the ruined vault door poured a dozen heavily armed men wearing private security insignia—not Vance’s men, but my personal quick-reaction force, led by the reinforcements I had secretly triggered via satellite phone before descending into the sub-level.
“Drop your weapons! Drop them now!” my head of security reserves roared, opening fire with suppressive force that pinned Vance’s hit squad against the far wall.
The firefight was over almost as quickly as it began. Two of Vance’s men slumped to the floor; the remaining two threw down their rifles, raising their hands in surrender as laser sights locked onto their chests.
“Secure the room!” a commander yelled.
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Silence rushed back into the scorched, smoking vault, broken only by the steady, beautiful beeping of my children’s heart monitors and their soft, bewildered voices calling out for their father.
I dropped my empty gun, fell to my knees beside Blythe’s bed, and buried my face in her hands, weeping tears of pure, unadulterated relief.
