Chapter 4 - The Storage Unit Protocol
I carried Lily downstairs while Emma scrambled ahead of us, holding the flashlight on my phone. The basement smelled of old paper, isopropyl alcohol, and damp concrete.
Behind us, from the floor above, came the sound of a heavy door being kicked open, followed by the deep, muffled voice of the scarred man: "Dr. Chen. Stand down. You're interfering with corporate property."
Then came a crash, the sound of breaking glass, and a sharp, metallic thud.
I didn't stop to look back. I found the low metal hatch hidden behind a row of metal supply shelves, unlocked the padlock with David's key, and shoved the girls through into the dark storm drain beneath the alley.
We crawled through fifty feet of icy water until we emerged behind the bakery, wet, shivering, and exhausted. David's silver sedan was parked in the spot he had described. I loaded the girls into the back seat, threw a blanket over them, and hit the ignition.
The engine roared to life. I threw the car into reverse just as the back door of the clinic burst open and the scarred man stepped out into the rain, drawing a weapon from under his coat.
I slammed my foot on the accelerator. The tires squealed against the wet asphalt, spraying rainwater as the car shot backward out of the alley and onto the main road. A gunshot cracked through the night air, shattering my driver's side side-mirror into a thousand sparkling shards.
I didn't stop. I ran three red lights, turning randomly down side streets until the headlights behind us disappeared into the curtain of heavy rain.
My mind was spinning. Harvesting. Extracting. Corporate property.
What could a six-year-old girl possibly have inside her body that a multibillion-dollar bio-tech company would murder people to obtain?
Then I remembered my father.
Six months before he died, Dad had participated in a "phase-one clinical trial" at St. Jude Bio-Tech's facility in downtown Chicago. He had signed non-disclosure agreements that prevented him from telling the family anything about it. But during his final weeks, when he was delirious with fever, he kept repeating a sequence of numbers and letters over and over: L-0-6-0-4. The second generation carries the key.
Lily wasn't just Sarah's daughter. Lily was my father's only granddaughter born after he entered that trial.
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The device in her back wasn't just taking something out of her. It was collecting a modified genetic line that my father had passed down through his DNA—a biological sequence that St. Jude had spent millions developing, but couldn't legally patent unless they extracted it from a living host.
My sister hadn't just sold guardianship for money to clear her debts. Sarah had sold her own daughter as an incubator.
