At 2:13 in the morning, a pregnant woman called 911 and whispered that her husband was going to kill her.

Arthur stepped across the threshold, his mud-splattered boots crunching against the dusty concrete floor. His eyes were wide, wild, and bloodshot, filled with the unstable madness of a man who realized his entire artificial life was collapsing around him.

"Hand me the child," Arthur demanded, holding out his left hand while keeping the shotgun locked onto Rowan with his right.

"She needs to be cleaned and kept warm, Arthur," Rowan said, stepping slowly between the shotgun and the mattress where Wren lay holding her baby. "The umbilical cord hasn't even been clamped yet."

"I said hand me the child!" Arthur roared, racking the slide of the shotgun with a loud, terrifying clack-clack. A live red shell ejected from the side port, bouncing across the floor. "I don't need any of you anymore! You delivered her! Now step away!"

"No," a voice said firmly from the corner.

Arthur shifted his gaze slightly toward Dax Monroe. "What did you say, paramedic?"

Dax stood holding the large aluminum D-tank oxygen cylinder in his arms, his posture heavy and grounded. "I said no. You aren't taking this baby. You aren't taking Wren. And you aren't leaving this room alive if you shoot."

"You think a piece of metal is going to protect you from buckshot?" Arthur sneered, raising the barrel toward Dax’s chest.

"No," Dax replied with a cold, terrifying smile. "I think two thousand pounds per square inch of pressurized gas pointed at your head is going to turn this entire basement into a bomb."

Before Arthur could process the warning, Dax snapped the main brass valve of the oxygen cylinder wide open.

A deafening, jet-engine roar filled the enclosed concrete room as high-pressure gas erupted from the nozzle. The sudden pressure wave and terrifying sound made Arthur flinch, shifting his shotgun barrel downward for a fraction of a second.

That fraction of a second was all Rowan Hale needed.

Rowan lunged forward, grabbing the steel barrel of the shotgun with both gloved hands, pushing it upward toward the ceiling just as Arthur pulled the trigger.

BOOM!

The shot exploded into the concrete ceiling, spraying dust, plaster, and shattered glass from the overhead light fixture everywhere.

Dax charged like a enraged linebacker, slamming the heavy aluminum cylinder straight into Arthur’s midsection with brutal, crushing force. The impact threw the older man backward out of the doorway into the corridor, knocking the wind completely out of his lungs.

"Kira! Lock the door behind us!" Rowan screamed, diving onto Arthur in the hallway, wrestling for control of the shotgun.

Kira slammed the heavy steel door shut, dropping the internal locking bar into place to protect Wren and the newborn baby inside.

In the narrow, dimly lit corridor, a desperate, bloody struggle for survival unfolded.

Arthur, driven by frantic maniacal strength, slammed Rowan against the concrete wall, trying to turn the shotgun toward her abdomen. Rowan held onto the weapon's receiver with all her might, using her thumb to jam the loading gate and prevent him from racking another shell.

Dax grabbed Arthur from behind in a rear-choke hold, driving his knee sharply into the back of Arthur’s thigh. "Drop it! Drop the gun!"

Arthur swung his elbow back wildly, striking Dax across the bridge of his nose. Blood sprayed, but Dax didn't loosen his grip. He wrapped his broad arms tighter around Arthur’s throat, cutting off the blood flow to the man’s brain.

Rowan twisted the shotgun barrel with a sharp, wrenching motion, tearing it out of Arthur’s hands and tossing it far down the hallway.

Arthur thrashed violently, gasping for air, his face turning dark purple under Dax’s crushing grip, until finally, his limbs went limp, and he slumped unconscious onto the damp floor.

Rowan leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, blood trickling from a small cut on her temple where flying glass had struck her.

Dax pulled a set of heavy plastic restraint zip-ties from his tactical vest, quickly binding Arthur’s wrists and ankles behind his back with double locks.

"Is he out?" Rowan panted, wiping blood from her forehead.