Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary Breached
Back on the freezing mountain patio, Diego finally felt the first prickle of true panic.
The medical bracelet on my wrist—a titanium band embedded with neural-link sensors that my father had insisted I wear—began to pulse with a rapid, rhythmic strobe of crimson light. A faint automated voice emitted from the tiny speaker grill: “Medical emergency detected. Coordinates transmitted. Rescue team en route.”
"Damn it!" Diego cursed, crouching down and grabbing my wrist to tear the band off.
But the titanium clasp was reinforced with a biometric deadlock; it couldn't be removed without my fingerprint or an authorized digital override.
"Open the door, Diego," a cold, smooth voice echoed from the shadows near the glass sliding doors.
Diego spun around, startled. Brenna stood in the doorway, her teacup forgotten, her face pale as chalk. "Diego, someone just cut the main security grid from the outside. The front gates—they've been rammed!"
Before Diego could reply, the heavy wooden double doors leading from the front foyer exploded inward with a deafening crash of splintered oak and iron hinges.
Three figures clad in tactical matte-black gear, their faces obscured by night-vision helmets and ballistic masks, poured into the hallway with the frightening efficiency of a military extraction unit. Leading them was Marcus, his weapon raised, laser sights sweeping the room in a fraction of a second.
"Clear!" Marcus shouted over the comms.
Diego scrambled backward, his hands raised defensively. "Who the hell are you? This is private property! I’ll have you all arrested—"
Marcus didn't waste a breath on words. He closed the distance in two giant strides, grabbed Diego by the silk collar of his shirt, and slammed him against the interior drywall with enough force to crack the plaster and knock the wind completely out of his lungs.
"You're done talking, asshole," Marcus growled, pressing the barrel of a non-lethal stun weapon against Diego’s ribs.
While Marcus secured Diego, the two accompanying tactical medics rushed past them out onto the freezing patio. One of them dropped to his knees beside me, instantly shedding his heavy tactical jacket and wrapping my trembling, unconscious body in a heated thermal blanket.
"She’s hypothermic! Core temp is dangerously low!" the medic shouted over the sound of the running water. "Pulse is weak, but present. Get the portable oxygen mask on her now! We’re losing the baby's heartbeat—move, move, move!"
May you like
As they lifted me onto a collapsible stretcher, rushing me through the shattered doorway toward the heated medical transport waiting in the driveway, the sound of a roaring jet engine cut through the night sky above us.
Alvin Sterling’s private helicopter was descending rapidly onto the reinforced helipad just beyond the garden.
