Chapter 3: The Ghost Frequency
The static in Marcus’s earpiece hissed like an angry viper before a calm, synthesized voice cut through the background noise of distant gunfire. “Vance, status report. Extraction point Charlie is currently compromised. Repeat, Charlie is hot.”
Marcus pressed two fingers against the small device, shielding his mouth with his left shoulder as he whispered a coded response. “I’m inside Room 14 with the target and a surviving nurse. The corridor is clear of friendlies, and hostile elements are actively clearing the western wing. I need a diversion on the ground floor, or we aren't walking out of here.”
“Negative, Colonel. Command has authorized total sanitization of the facility. You have five minutes before the perimeter is sealed with chemical suppression. Extract alone or be left behind.” The line went dead with a sharp click, leaving only the steady whine of the artificial intelligence tone.
Clara watched Marcus’s face harden. The news hadn't surprised him; it had merely confirmed the betrayal that had been brewing at the highest levels of the military-industrial complex. He pulled the earpiece out of his ear, crushed it beneath the heel of his heavy combat boot, and tossed the fragments into a corner wastebasket.
“They’re going to gas the building,” Clara said, the blood draining from her already pale face. She looked down at Toby, whose chest rose and fell in a slow, mechanical rhythm. “If they release chemical suppression into this ward, the filtration units will pull it right into his lungs. It will kill him within seconds.”
“Not if we don't give them the chance,” Marcus said, pulling a heavy tactical knife from his belt and kneeling beside the bed. With practiced, silent precision, he began slicing through the fabric straps holding Toby’s portable monitor harness together, freeing the vital equipment so it could be transported manually. “I need you to help me carry him. Can you do that, Clara?”
“I’ve carried heavier patients through worse shifts,” she muttered, stepping to the other side of the bed. She unclipped the oxygen tank from its heavy wall mount, hoisting the green cylinder into her arms alongside the portable regulator. “Just tell me when to lift.”
Marcus checked the hallway through the small wired glass panel once more. The shadows had shifted; the mercenaries had moved down toward the nurses' station at the far end of the hall, distracted by an automated fire alarm that must have been triggered by a stray round. It was a narrow window of opportunity, perhaps thirty seconds before they realized the rooms on this side had not yet been thoroughly searched.
“On three,” Marcus whispered, sliding his strong arms beneath his son’s lightweight frame. “One... two... three.”
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They lifted Toby in unison, keeping his head elevated and the nasal tubing securely taped to his upper lip. The boy stirred slightly, his eyelids fluttering open for a brief second before slipping back into a heavily medicated sleep. He didn't cry out, accustomed as he was to being moved between rooms, scans, and treatments in the dead of night.
Marcus unlocked the heavy door with a silent twist of the wrist, pulling it inward just enough to peer into the dim corridor. The air outside smelled of cordite, ozone, and fresh plaster dust.
