Chapter 3 - The Blood on the Linoleum
The second contractor fired a controlled three-round burst, the rounds chewing through the drywall inches above my head and sending a cloud of white dust and wooden splinters raining down into my hair. The sharp, metallic stench of burnt gunpowder instantly overpowered the scent of pine antiseptic.
"Suppressing fire!" Miller yelled back, returning fire with his Sig Sauer. The muffled thip-thip-thip of his suppressed weapon echoed through the lobby, chipping the frame of the front window and forcing the second contractor to duck behind a steel-reinforced concrete pillar near the entrance.
Vance was thrashing beneath Ghost, his hands clawing desperately at the dog's thick shoulders, trying to wrench the Malinois's jaws away from his throat. But Ghost had been trained by the best handlers in the military to ignore pain, distraction, and hostile fire. His grip was an iron vice, his dark eyes locked onto Vance's visor with terrifying intelligence.
"Get him off me! Shoot the damn dog!" Vance choked out, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple as the reinforced collar compressed his windpipe.
"If you shoot the dog, I put a hollow-point between your eyes, Vance!" Miller roared, keeping his weapon trained on the pillar while ducking behind the heavy oak reception desk. He looked over at me, his chest heaving. "Dr. Cole! We need to move! They have a QRF—quick reaction force—two blocks down! More of them are coming!"
I didn't answer immediately. My hands were already inside the bottom drawer of the surgical supply cabinet, bypassing the mundane bandages and saline flushes to find what I was looking for. My fingers closed around a heavy, lead-lined steel lockbox. I punched in a six-digit numerical code—not a clinic password, but an old military encryption sequence that hadn't been valid since 2019.
Click.
The lid sprang open. Inside sat a heavy-duty military-grade encrypted satellite communicator, its battery light glowing a steady, defiant green, alongside a sleek, custom-built modular firearm and three spare magazines.
Miller’s eyes widened as he spotted the sat-com. "Where the hell did you get a DARPA-spec military transceiver?"
"You think I spent seven years hiding out in a sleepy coastal town baking dog biscuits?" I pulled the transceiver out, checking the signal strength. Four bars. Secure channel active. "When you live a life that officially never happened, you keep your emergency go-bag closer than your stethoscope."
I stood up, sliding the compact modular pistol into the waistband of my scrubs with the practiced ease of someone who had carried a sidearm before she ever learned how to properly calculate an animal's dosage of ketamine.
"Ghost!" I called out sharply, using a specific two-tone whistle. ברת
The Malinois immediately released his grip on Vance’s throat, leaping backward off the writhing contractor with absolute fluid grace. He didn't hesitate or look back; he trotted straight to my side, sitting down heavily against my leg, his breathing controlled, his eyes scanning the shattered entrance for new targets.
Vance collapsed against the floor, coughing violently, gasping for air while clutching his bruised throat. The second contractor peeked around the pillar, raising his rifle, but before he could acquire a target, Miller stepped out from behind the desk and put a bullet directly through the drywall inches from the man's nose.
"Drop the weapon, operator! The game's over!" Miller shouted.
"You think this ends here, Cross?" Vance wheezed from the floor, a grim, bloody smile twisting his lips as he spat a mouthful of metallic blood onto the glass-strewn floor. "You think because you found her, you're safe? Project Oberon wasn't just a tracking experiment. It was a genetic baseline test. And the data isn't on a server in Langley. It's inside the dog's head. And inside your memories, Rook."
My blood ran cold. Project Oberon. The name alone carried the weight of a mass grave. Ethan had whispered it to me on a secure satellite call hours before his base went dark seven years ago. He had told me that if anything ever happened to him, I had to find the core files.
"What data?" I stepped closer to Vance, my voice dropping into a dangerous, icy register that made even Miller flinch. "What did you do to Ethan?"
Before Vance could answer, a piercing, high-pitched screech echoed from outside—the distinct sound of a tactical flashbang bouncing across the wet pavement right toward the shattered front door.
"Flashbang! Eyes and ears closed!" Miller screamed, diving behind the reinforced triage counter.
I grabbed Ghost’s harness just as the grenade crossed the threshold.
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FLASH. BANG.
A blinding white magnesium glare swallowed the room, followed immediately by a concussive shockwave that rattled my teeth and plunged the clinic into a ringing, smoky nightmare.
