Chapter 5 - Fire in the East Wing
The corridor outside the guest suite was bathed in the harsh red glow of emergency strobe lights. Smoke drifted from the lower-level stairwell, carrying the acrid stench of C4 and scorched drywall.
Lawson moved with the lethal grace of a predator whose territory had been violated. Clara shadowed him closely, her carbine held tight against her shoulder, eyes scanning every shadow and intersection.
“The medical suite is fifty yards down, past the portrait gallery,” Lawson whispered, stepping over a fallen piece of ornamental molding.
Suddenly, two heavily armored figures in black tactical gear rounded the corner ahead of them, rifles raised.
Lawson didn't hesitate. He raised his Sig Sauer and fired twice—bang, bang—dropping the lead operative with a clean double-tap to the chest plate.
Before the second operative could bring his rifle to bear, Clara’s carbine barked once with a suppressed, muffled thip. The man collapsed instantly, a precise round piercing his visor.
“Nice shot,” Lawson muttered, checking the corner.
“Former range instructor,” Clara replied without breaking stride. “Move!”
They reached the heavy steel-reinforced doors of the medical suite. The digital keypad had been blown off by an explosive charge, leaving a jagged, smoking hole in the metal framework. Inside, the emergency alarms were wailing in a high-pitched shriek.
Lawson kicked the warped door open and swept his weapon into the room.
Dr. Yates was cowering behind a supply counter, his hands over his head, while two armed intruders were actively trying to override the pneumatic locks on Jonah and Blythe’s isolation chambers.
“Don’t move!” Lawson shouted, stepping into the room.
The intruders spun around, raising their weapons.
What followed was a brutal, chaotic firefight in a confined space. Glass shattered from medical monitors, IV bags burst, spilling saline and blood across the sterile tile floor. Lawson took a grazing round to his left shoulder, the hot burn of lead tearing through his shirt, but he didn't stop firing until both intruders hit the floor, motionless.
Silence rushed back into the room, broken only by the hiss of damaged oxygen lines and the terrified weeping of the children.
Lawson dropped his empty magazine, slammed a fresh one home, and sprinted toward Jonah and Blythe’s isolation glass.
Jonah was curled in a ball, shivering violently from the shock of the explosions, while Blythe was coughing weakly, her small chest heaving.
“Dad!” Jonah cried out, his voice small and terrified.
Lawson manually overrode the isolation door lock with his master security code, swinging the glass open and dropping to his knees beside his son. He gathered both children into his arms, pulling them against his chest regardless of the blood staining his shirt.
“I’ve got you. I’m here. Nobody is touching you,” Lawson choked out, his voice cracking for the first time in his life.
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Clara rushed over, immediately kneeling beside Blythe and checking her intravenous lines, which had been dangerously rattled by the concussive blast.
“The filtration units in these isolation pods saved them from the airborne secondary charge,” Clara said, working with frantic, expert precision to re-secure the IV tubing and adjust the oxygen flow. “Pulse is stable, but we need to get them out of this estate immediately. This wing isn't safe anymore.”
