Chapter 8 - THE RACE AGAINST THE FLATLINE
1
The receiver nearly slipped from my sweaty palm as Dr. Evans’ words echoed in the damp confines of the subterranean tunnel. “We’re going to lose him.”
“I’m on my way! Do whatever it takes to keep him stable!” I shouted into the landline handset before slamming it back onto the junction box.
I turned to Thomas, adrenaline roaring in my ears like a jet engine. “The hospital. Now. My son is crashing.”
Thomas didn't hesitate. He pointed down the dark, sloping culvert toward a faint glimmer of grey daylight reflecting off a stagnant pool of water about a hundred yards ahead. “That’s the spillway exit! It leads straight to the service road behind the water treatment plant. Your truck should still be hidden in the brush near the access gate.”
We didn't waste another second. We sprinted through the remaining length of the drainage pipe, splashing through ankle-deep runoff water until we burst out into the cold, misty dawn of the county industrial park.
The morning air hit my lungs like ice, but I barely felt it. I scrambled up the gravel embankment, scanning the treeline where I had left my truck just hours earlier. It was still there, untouched by the chaos at the mansion.
I yanked the keys from my pocket, unlocked the door, and threw myself into the driver’s seat while Thomas hauled his frail frame into the passenger side, slamming the door shut.
“Hold on!” I roared, slamming the gearshift into drive and stomping the accelerator.
The heavy diesel engine surged to life with a ferocious roar, kicking up a shower of wet gravel and mud as we vaulted out of the tree line and onto the paved county highway. The hospital was ten miles away—ten miles of winding two-lane blacktop that usually took fifteen minutes to navigate, but right now, every second felt like a lifetime slipping through my fingers.
I gripped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white, my foot pinned to the floorboards as the speedometer needle climbed past eighty, ninety, a hundred miles per hour. The truck wailed down the deserted morning road, cutting across lanes and blurring the misty pine forests rushing past us in a grey smear.
“Arthur, watch the curve!” Thomas yelled, bracing his hands against the dashboard as we rocketed around a sharp hairpin turn near the municipal reservoir.
“I don't care about the curve!” I shouted back, my eyes locked on the horizon where the brick tower of Saint Jude Memorial Hospital finally pierced the low-hanging cloud cover.
My mind raced back to Claire. She had woken up. She was alone in that sterile hospital room, recovering from a drug-induced coma, unaware that her husband was racing across the county with an illicit antidote to save their unborn child from a poisoned legacy.
Just hold on, little man, I chanted silently in my head, gripping the metal lockbox containing Batch 407 on the passenger seat with one hand while steering with the other. Don't you dare give up.
Within six minutes—shaving the travel time in half—we screeched into the hospital’s ambulance bay, sliding to a violent halt right in front of the emergency sliding doors.
I didn't bother turning off the engine. I threw the door open, grabbed the lockbox, and bolted across the sidewalk.
“Arthur!” Thomas called out, struggling to keep pace as he climbed out of the truck. “Be careful! Evelyn’s reach isn't just in the underground lab—!”
He didn't get to finish the sentence.
From the shadows of the ambulance canopy, a sleek black sedan suddenly accelerated out of a parking bay, cutting off the entrance with a screech of tires. The doors flew open, and two men in tactical gear stepped out, blocking my path to the sliding doors.
Apex Security. They had beaten us to the hospital.
“Step aside,” I snarled, my voice dark and venomous as I advanced on them, the heavy wrench in my hand catching the glare of the emergency lights.
“Hand over the box, Mr. Vance,” the lead operative said coldly, resting his hand on the holster of his sidearm. “Orders from Mrs. Vance. Nothing leaves that facility alive.”
I didn't answer with words.
Before the operative could draw his weapon, I lunged forward with explosive fury. Decades of childhood training on our family’s construction sites combined with the raw, primal terror of a father protecting his dying child gave me a surge of inhuman strength.
I slammed the heavy metal lockbox directly into the operative’s jaw with a sickening crack, sending him crashing backward onto the concrete hood of the sedan. The second operative drew his sidearm, raising it toward my chest—but before he could pull the trigger, a sharp crack echoed from the truck behind me.
Thomas stood by the passenger door, holding an old hunting rifle he had pulled from the truck’s back rack. He fired a warning shot directly into the hood of the sedan, sending a shower of sparks flying into the air.
“Drop the weapon, or the next one goes through your shoulder!” Thomas roared, his voice carrying an authority that shocked even me.
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The second operative froze, looking from the smoking barrel of the hunting rifle to his unconscious partner on the hood. With a curse, he dropped his sidearm to the pavement and threw his hands up.
I didn't waste a second looking back. I vaulted over the hood of the sedan, smashed through the emergency sliding doors, and sprinted down the hallway toward the surgical wing, screaming for Dr. Evans at the top of my lungs.
