Mike exhaled slowly, one hand gripping the edge of the table. The comms tech beside them started shaking from relief.
Ford’s voice crackled over the channel, “We need EMS in the tunnels. Now. He’s crashing.”
Ian didn’t hesitate. “Activate emergency routing. Midtown command, greenlight street closure if needed. Get Jamie in there.”
OUTSIDE THE VAULT
The tunnel echoed with sirens now.FDNY EMS and Chase Med trauma staff rushed in behind Jamie O’Reilly, who pushed past a dazed NYPD lieutenant barking about containment.
“Make way! Clear a path—he’ll code if we don’t move now!” Jamie reached Dante just as Ford helped roll him gently to his back, eyes fluttering. Blood loss. Rhabdo. Shock.
Dante’s mouth moved, no sound.
Jamie dropped to his knees. “Hey, Dante. Look at me.”
Dante blinked once.
Shannon held his hand, trying to keep her voice steady. “Dante, you did it.”
“He needs fluids, heat, vasopressors.” Jamie was already applying oxygen and tearing open the trauma kit. “We’re going to stabilize you, man. I’ve got you. You did it.”
Dante’s eyes rolled. His chest rose, and then he flatlined.
“No, no, no—he’s coding! Epinephrine, now!”
OUTSIDE THE UN
The sidewalk was chaos. NYPD, Chase Security, and media were just beginning to descend.
Matthew Krueger, zip-tied and bloodied, was loaded into a black unmarked van, eyes half open now. He stared up at the sky, dazed, blinking at the morning light like he didn’t recognize it. He didn’t fight. Didn’t speak. He just smiled.
CHASE MEDICAL TRAUMA BAY 1
Red lights painted the walls as the ambulance slammed to a halt. The doors burst open. “Go, go, go!”
Jamie O’Reilly leapt out first, fingers still pressing down on the bag valve mask pumping air into Dante’s lungs. “He’s bradying down again! We need him on fluids, pads in place, catheter prepped!”
Shannon jumped down behind them, sprinting alongside the gurney in blood-smeared sweats, her hand never leaving Dante’s leg. His skin was clammy, his lips blue. “Stay with me,” she whispered. “Come on, Dante…”
Inside the trauma bay, a full team had already assembled—ICU, dialysis, trauma, and cardiology—on call the second the alert hit. O’Reilly never broke stride. “He’s post-dialysis, hypotensive, possible internal re-bleed. Femoral access clotted off; need new central line.”
A machine alarm shrieked. Then another. Flatline.
“CODE BLUE!”
BLACK ROOM INTERROGATION UNIT, SUBLEVEL B1
General Matthew Krueger sat with his hands cuffed to the table, blood cleaned off his face. He leaned back, wearing a clean uniform shirt. “Are we really going to pretend this is going to work?”
Martin Bailey stood at the far end of the glass, arms folded. Beside him, Ian Chase and Ford Cox watched without speaking.
“You’re not in charge of this,” Ian finally said to no one in particular.
Inside the room, Krueger smiled. “You never understood the enemy. That was always your problem.”
Ford leaned forward slightly. “You think we’re the enemy?”
Krueger’s smile faded. “No. I was the one cleaning up your mess. Until you made it personal.”
