Chapter 10: The Estate in Lockdown
The red emergency strobe lights mounted along the low ceilings of the subterranean corridor began to flash in a hypnotic, frantic rhythm. A synthesized automated voice echoed from the overhead speakers, droning in a flat, mechanical monotone: ""Facility lockdown initiated. Sector four security breach confirmed. All internal transit routes suspended.""
Marcus sprinted down the concrete corridor, carrying Clara securely in his arms. Her breathing was growing stronger as the counter-agent he had injected into her IV line began to flush the neural suppressants from her bloodstream. Her head rested against his shoulder, her fingers weakly clutching the fabric of his blue scrubs.
""Marcus..."" she whispered, her voice rough and cracked from the trauma to her throat. ""The... the firewall... they're wiping the servers at the main office...""
""Let them,"" Marcus panted, his lungs burning as he pushed through a pair of heavy swinging fire doors into the ground-floor mudroom. ""I have the core ledger on the physical card. They can't delete what’s in my pocket.""
Suddenly, the heavy oak doors at the end of the grand hallway blew open with a thunderous crash. Two armed private security guards in black tactical gear and Kevlar vests rushed into the foyer, their automatic rifles raised and sweeping the space for targets.
""Freeze! Drop your weapon!"" one of the guards shouted, his laser sight painting a bright red dot across Marcus’s chest.
Marcus instinctively ducked behind a massive stone fireplace pillar, using the structural masonry as temporary cover. He gently lowered Clara to the floor behind a carved mahogany bench, pressing his finger to his lips. ""Stay down. Don't make a sound.""
He unzipped his trauma bag, his fingers frantically searching the interior compartments. He didn't carry firearms—he was a physician, sworn to heal, not to kill. But a well-stocked medical kit in the hands of someone desperate contained plenty of volatile chemistry. His fingers closed around a heavy glass canister of industrial-strength surgical ether and a disposable butane cauterizing pen.
Footsteps crunched closer on the hardwood floor as the guards advanced methodically, communicating in clipped military cadence over their tactical radios. ""Sector clear. Moving toward the north wing gallery.""
Marcus pulled the heavy rubber stopper from the ether canister with his teeth, splashing the volatile, highly flammable liquid across a thick wool tapestry hanging beside the pillar. With a flick of his thumb, he ignited the butane cauterizing pen, creating a steady, blue-hot flame.
As the first guard rounded the corner of the stone pillar, rifle raised, Marcus tossed the burning pen directly onto the ether-soaked tapestry.
The fabric erupted instantly into a blinding wall of roaring orange flame, billowing thick, acrid black smoke directly into the faces of the advancing guards. Coughing violently, the guards stumbled backward, their tactical vision compromised by the dense smoke and sudden heat.
""Go! Now!"" Marcus yelled, scooping Clara up once again and bolting past the disoriented guards toward the grand mahogany front doors of the estate.
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The heavy iron bolts were thrown, and Marcus threw his shoulder against the timber panels, bursting out onto the wraparound front porch just as the morning rain began to turn into a driving mountain downpour.
***
