The mahogany doors of my study swung open, and Prescott escorted her inside. I expected a spy, a blackmailer, or a operative sent by Crosby Vane.

With the keycard in hand and Crosby tied to his own leather chair, Clara and I took the emergency stairwell down four stories into the freezing, concrete depths of Sub-Level 4.

The air down here was thick with the smell of liquid nitrogen and ozone. Rows of stainless-steel cryogenic tanks lined the vast, silent hall, hissing softly as automated valves vented cold vapor into the air.

Clara ran down the middle aisle, stopping in front of a heavy vault door marked containment unit 09.

She pulled a portable optical drive from her coat, pressed it against the scanner, and swiped Crosby’s keycard through the secondary lock.

A loud mechanical clunk echoed through the room. The steel door unsealed, heavy white frost spilling out around the edges as it swung open.

Inside, sitting in a velvet-lined aluminum case, were three sealed quartz vials containing a glowing, milky-gold fluid.

"It’s here," Clara whispered, her voice choked with tears as she gently lifted the case. "It’s really here. Genevieve’s life's work."

"Will it still work after four years?" I asked, guarding the doorway with my gun drawn.

"The cryogenic preservation is intact," she said, checking the digital temp-gauge on the case. "As long as we keep it stabilized at sub-zero temperatures during transit, Dr. Yates can begin the infusion process within three hours."

Suddenly, the heavy steel door behind us slammed shut with a deafening bang.

The magnetic locks engaged.

Through the reinforced observation glass, a bloody, pale face appeared. It was Crosby Vane. He was clutching a bleeding shoulder with one hand and holding a manual override terminal with the other.

"You thought you were so clever, Lawson!" Crosby screamed through the intercom system, his voice distorted by static. "You took the bait! That vault is a sealable quarantine chamber! In two minutes, the oxygen evacuation sequence will trigger. You and your little scientist are going to suffocate in the cold!"

I sprinted to the door, firing three heavy rounds into the reinforced glass. The glass cracked, but didn't shatter.

"Lawson!" Clara yelled, pointing toward a digital panel near the ceiling. "The emergency release is tied to the main power breaker on the exterior wall! If you hit the liquid nitrogen coolant pipe, the pressure surge will short-circuit the magnetic lock!"

I looked at the thick, insulated steel pipe running directly above Crosby’s head on the other side of the glass.

I stepped back, aimed my gun at the primary pressure valve visible through the cracked glass, and emptied the remaining four rounds of my magazine into the brass fitting.

The brass shattered.

A high-pressure jet of liquid nitrogen—minus three hundred degrees Fahrenheit—blasted outward, striking Crosby directly in the face and torso. He shrieked in agony as the freezing agent instantly blinded him and coated the terminal in thick, crackling ice.

The extreme cold shattered the electrical circuits of the door lock. The heavy steel door popped open with a burst of frozen mist.

Crosby collapsed onto the floor, unconscious and frostbitten.

I grabbed Clara by the arm, snatched the aluminum case, and pulled her out of the chamber just as Prescott and my security team burst down the stairwell.