Chapter 9 - The Breached Wing
The shattered glass from the second-floor window rained down onto the manicured lawn like glittering diamonds as smoke poured into the cool night air. Clara sprinted across the grass, her beige heels sinking slightly into the damp earth, ignoring the physical discomfort entirely as her heart hammered against her ribs. Marcus moved with tactical precision, leading the charge toward the private side entrance of the medical wing, his weapon raised and ready.
The heavy steel door, normally locked by a triple-redundancy biometric deadbolt, hung slightly ajar, its electronic keypad completely charred and smoking from a localized electrical surge.
"Stay behind me," Marcus muttered, pushing the door open with the barrel of his weapon and stepping into the sterile, white-tiled hallway.
The interior emergency lighting cast an eerie, pulsating red glow over the walls. Alarms hummed silently, their audio cut off by the saboteurs to avoid alerting the neighborhood. As they rushed down the corridor toward the master recovery suite, the smell of burnt wiring and ozone grew overwhelmingly pungent.
They reached the double doors of the recovery room. The reinforced glass observation panel was cracked down the middle, spiderwebbed from a heavy impact from the inside.
Clara pushed past Marcus, throwing the door open.
Inside, the room was in absolute disarray. Medical monitors hung sideways from their wall mounts, wires dangling like severed vines. In the center of the room, the advanced life-support bed sat empty, its straps undone, the white sheets stained with a dark, alarming smear of fresh blood.
Clara froze, her breath catching in her throat as she scanned the ruined room. "Dad?" she whispered, her voice cracking. "Dad!"
A low, guttural groan echoed from the adjoining private bathroom.
Marcus moved instantly, clearing the threshold with his weapon drawn. On the tiled floor of the bathroom, slumped against the marble sink, sat Arthur Vance—the patriarch of the retail empire. His silver hair was disheveled, his hospital gown torn at the shoulder, and a nasty bruise purpled the skin along his jawline. But his chest was rising and falling in steady, deep rhythms. He was alive.
Clara dropped to her knees beside him, wrapping her arms carefully around his frail shoulders. "Dad! Thank God. What happened? Who did this?"
Arthur blinked heavily, his eyes focusing with difficulty on his daughter's face. He raised a trembling hand, pointing a weak finger toward the open window overlooking the back gardens.
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"Miller..." the old man rasped, his voice rough from lack of oxygen. "He took the vault keys... and he took your sister."
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