BENEATH THE SURFACE
The stinkof burnt gunpowder and Cooper’s blood fills my nostrils as we stumble through the dim tunnels. Gunfire echoes behind us, each shot a reminder of how close death follows. Cooper’s grip on my hand weakens with every step, his breathing becoming more labored. My mind races between the data we’ve uncovered, the extraction coordinates, and the terrifying possibility that Cooper might not make it.
“Almost there,” Cooper grunts, his voice rough with pain. “Junction ahead.”
The tunnel widens into a concrete chamber marked with faint chalk symbols that would be invisible to anyone who didn’t know to look for them. In the weak emergency lighting, I can just make out three silhouettes waiting in tactical formation—Guardian operatives in black gear, faces obscured, moving with the precision that speaks of years of operational experience.
No words are exchanged. No introductions. Just a quiet command from the tallest figure: “Up. Now.”
A telescoping ladder drops from a shaft above, extendingdown with a metallic hiss. I stare up into darkness; my heart hammering against my ribs.
“You first,” Cooper says, his voice barely audible. His face is ashen, sweat beading on his forehead despite the tunnel’s chill. “I’ll follow.”
My hands shake as I grab the first rung. The ladder is slick with grime and moisture, each step up a test of nerves more than strength. My muscles burn with exhaustion, protesting every movement. Below me, Cooper waits, swaying slightly, one hand pressed against his blood-soaked shoulder.
When I reach the top, two gloved hands seize my wrists, pulling me swiftly through the circular opening. I stumble as my feet hit solid flooring, disoriented by the sudden transition from vertical to horizontal movement.
“Easy,” a male voice says, steadying me with a firm grip on my elbow.
I blink, adjusting to the dim interior. It’s not a street opening as I expected, but a customized tactical van. Red-filtered lights cast everything in a bloody glow, revealing equipment racks along both walls and a central gurney with restraints. The space is tight—maybe fifteen feet long and seven feet wide—with four people in dark tactical gear positioned strategically around the confined area. The air smells of antiseptic, metal, and the coppery tang of blood.
A woman with long brown hair tied in a practical bun guides me to a jump seat bolted to the side wall. Despite the tension in the air, her face has a natural kindness to it, softening her otherwise all-business demeanor. “Sit here. Stay clear of the medical team,” she instructs, her voice clipped but gentle. She points to a handhold on the wall next to me. “Use this when we move. It’ll get bumpy.”
She turns back to the opening in the floor, leaving me perched on the edge ofthe seat.
“Cooper,” I call down, gripping the metal handhold. “Come on.”
I watch in horror as he struggles up the ladder, each movement clearly agony. Halfway up, his grip slips, and only the quick reaction of one of the Guardian operatives prevents him from falling. Cooper fights to continue climbing, his face contorted with pain.
Just as he reaches the final rungs, his strength gives out. He lurches forward, collapsing half-in and half-out of the van’s opening, blood spreading across his shirt in an alarming pattern.
“Cooper!” I scream, lunging toward him, but strong hands guide me firmly back to my seat.
“Let them work,” a low voice orders.
The van’s interior is cramped but organized. Four medical professionals in dark tactical gear are positioned around a central gurney, equipment cases stacked against the walls. They spring into action the moment Cooper appears, two of them pulling him fully inside while the others snap open cases of medical supplies and ready IV bags.
“I’m Doc Summers, you can call me Skye,” says the woman with the brown hair, her kind eyes briefly meeting mine before returning to Cooper. She assesses his wounds with quick, practiced movements, then looks up sharply at her team. “He’s crashing. Let’s move.”
The team leaps into action. A tall woman with copper skin and nimble fingers tears open Cooper’s shirt, revealing the full extent of his injuries. She finds veins in his arms, sliding in two IV catheters with remarkable speed while calling for fluids.
A man who could be Cooper’s cousin—same chiseled features, same intensity in his eyes—attaches monitoring leads to Cooper’s chest. “Pulse 130 and thready,” he reports, reaching for an oxygen mask. “O2 sats 82 and dropping. Starting supplemental.”
“Tia, push a unit of plasma,” Skye orders, applying pressure to Cooper’s side wound. “Ryker, get that portable ultrasound ready. I need to see what we’re dealing with.”
While the medical team works, a commanding figure with a communications headset turns his attention to me. “CJ, Guardian Team Leader,” he says, his voice calm despite the chaos around him. “The woman saving your friend is Dr. Skye Summers. The tall one is Tia, our nurse anesthetist. The guy with the oxygen is Ryker, respiratory technician.”
From the shadows steps a man whose presence fills the confined space—tall, with hard eyes that miss nothing. “Mason Blackwood,” he says, extending a hand. “Call sign Ghost. Cooper’s team leader at Cerberus.” His grip is firm but not crushing. “You did good getting him this far. Now sit back and let these people work.”
I gasp at the full extent of his wounds—not just the shoulder injury I’d been treating but a second wound along his side that’s pumping blood at an alarming rate. The floor of the van is slick with it, bright red against steel gray.
“He’s losing too fast,” Skye says, her voice cutting through the methodical beeps of monitoring equipment. “Tia, hang two units and push it wide open. Pressure dressing on this lateral wound.”
Tia reaches into a refrigerated case, pulling out blood bags. “Blood’s cold. Running it through the warmer,” she reports, connecting the tubing to a rapid infuser that will both warm the blood and push it in under pressure.
My vision tunnels, the edges going dark as I watch Cooper’s life spilling onto the van floor while they race to replace what he’s losing. I grip an overhead bar to stay upright, my knuckles white with the effort.
Tia notices, her eyes meeting mine briefly even as she manages the blood transfusion. “It looks worse than it is,” she says, her voice steady as she works. “You got him herein time.”
