Silent stretched across the airwaves, the unanswered call jacking up the tension. Bodie shifted on his feet, flashed Dalton a hand signal, when the comms crackled.
Nick breathed across the line, a dull thud echoing through. “Not sure what part of stay dark was confusing, but… give me a second. Avery’s trying to override all the doors in all the stairwells.”
Bodie rolled his eyes, Dalton and Tierney each taking point — watching the upper and lower floors for any hint of movement.
The silence dragged on, nothing but their combined breathing echoed around them until a whoosh sounded above them, two sets of footsteps heading their way.
Dalton held up two fingers as he moved into position, rifle at his shoulder. Muffled voices carried down the stairs, the words all melding into one.
The lock clicked, but the door didn’t budge when Bodie tried it again.
Nick’s voice rasped in their ears. “Well?”
“Still locked, and we’ve got company a couple flights up…” Bodie cursed when another door opened below them, quick taps moving toward them. “Make that above and below.”
Nick cursed. “On it.”
Tierney raised her weapon, hands shaking slightly before she settled, looking as battle hardened as Dalton was. Bodie tapped Rowan’s arm, motioned to the door, then joined Dalton and Tierney, rifle notched, ready to make the tough decisions if Nick couldn’t open the door in time.
The seconds drew on, those footsteps getting closer, voices louder. Rowan readied her stance, mentally noting to shoot high in the shoulder, outside any possible body armor, when the seal around the door popped, cracking it open an inch.
She palmed the handle, waved everyone through as a hand appeared on the railing above them, a shadow bouncing off the wall below. Bodie and Dalton rushed through, Tierney close behind. Rowan didn’t know if the corridor was clear or if she’d just sent them headlong into another ambush. Didn’t care when the only other option was opening fire — alerting Graves’ forces they’d been compromised.
She darted in behind Bodie, swept the left side. Strip lights glowed along the floor, stall numbers on cards at eye level. A row of beds lined the far wall, an eerie sense of Déjà Vu washing over her.
She recognized the layout. The blue tinge to the lighting. The color of the floor. This is where they’d drugged her father. One of these stalls with the dingy grey linoleum and the ugly beige curtains.
Regret soured her stomach. All these years, and he’d been so close. Waiting. Hoping.
Nick’s voice sounded over the comms. “I’ve got the cameras on a sixty second loop. Patient rooms are down the hallway to your right. There’s a double-door airlock. Wait there.”
Rowan swallowed against the rush of nausea, the word patient making it all too real. That he might be gone, either physically or mentally. That the rescue mission was nothing more than a retrieval.
She shoved down what she couldn’t process, followed Bodie as he headed for the airlock. Noted the strong line of his back, the confident tilt of his head. Borrowed some of his strength as they reached the door, a red “Biohazard Warning” light illuminated in the window above. A keycard glowed off to the right, part of the number eight rubbed off.
Avery’s voice sounded over the comms a moment later. “I’m bypassing the lock, now. You’ve got one shot at this. When it opens, it’ll trigger a silent alarm at the nurse’s station a couple corridors over if there’s anyone there. That’s our point of no return.”
The keypad buzzed, the interior light flickering before cutting out, releasing the doors an inch, just like in the stairwell. The sign overhead blinked out, just a residual red hue coloring the glass.
Bodie showed the countdown on one hand, shouldering open the door once he reached zero. He went right as Rowan went left, Dalton and Tierney barreling straight ahead. They swept the immediate area, taking in everything. Floor-to-ceiling glass rooms took up the entire west side, each containing a single bed. A handful of chairs lined the opposite wall, arranged like some kind of sick observation room.
Movement in the last cubical on the left drew her attention. A man in a white lab coat walked through the door, flanked by two men in similar black tactical gear, weapons slung across their backs, flash bangs and smoke grenades strapped to their vests. The first guy approached a man in simple gray sweats, face twisted in rage, arms and legs straining against his restraints.
She inhaled. The ragged features, the mass of messy black hair against pale skin didn’t hide the familiar shape of his jaw. Rowan took a step, stumbled, all those emotions she shoved down releasing in a wave of incandescent rage.
The needle. The code black. The remark about cleaning house.
This wasn’t another experiment.
It was a termination.
She moved.
No stealth. No sticking to the shadows.
Just a single thought looping through her head.
She raced toward the room, her team flanking her as she raised her Sig, planted four shots in a diamond pattern across the glass. The sheet cracked, chips shooting through the air before she tucked her head — hit the pane dead center with her shoulder. The safety glass shattered, thousands of tiny squares exploding across the polished floor. Rowan rolled with the force, gained her feet within striking distance of the asshole in white. He recoiled, eyes wide, that syringe stabbing at her in long, smooth arcs. Bodie and Dalton landed beside her a heartbeat later, the room erupting into a full-on brawl.
