Chapter 4 - The Inergen Purge-4
The white fluorescent lamps overhead suddenly flickered twice and died, plunging the interrogation room into a sudden, pitch-black silence illuminated only by the flashing crimson security indicators of the isolation matrix. The ambient noise of the substation's communication deck outside ground to a sudden halt, replaced by a low, mechanical hiss that echoed through the ventilation shafts overhead.
"The main power grid for the entire precinct has been cut from the street pylon, Detective!" Officer Briggs shouted, his tactical flashlight turning on, a sharp white beam cutting through the gray dust of the room.
"Secure the suspect, Briggs!" Miller commanded, his service weapon drawn and raised to the low-ready position as he stepped toward the heavy steel double doors of the vault frame. "Don't let anyone clear that corridor!"
But the distraction was exactly what the syndicate's tactical teams had been waiting for.
Through the thick, frosted glass windows of the interrogation block, a thick, colorless, odorless gaseous compound began to flood out from the ceiling vents, dropping into the room like an invisible blanket of death.
"It’s an industrial Inergen fire-suppression gas mixture!" I yelled, the forensic accounting background I had shared with my husband instantly recognizing the technical threat. "It’s designed to rapidly displace oxygen to prevent electrical short-circuits in server vaults! Marcus Croft's operators are clearing the lower deck through the utility tunnels!"
The room fell into a chaotic, breathless panic. Officer Briggs fell to his knees beside the table, coughing violently as his lungs failed to draw in enough clean oxygen to sustain his frame. Detective Miller stumbled against the metal lockers, his movements slow and uncoordinated, like a diver moving through deep water in the dark.
I didn't panic. The maternal protective response wiped away any trace of human hesitation. I scooped Oliver into my arms, wrapping my heavy wool sweater completely over his face to filter the descending gas, and dropped flat onto the concrete floorboards beneath the heavy steel table where the residual oxygen was slightly denser.
"Oliver, hold your breath, baby," I whispered against his ear, my own lungs expanding against a hollow, freezing air that yielded zero satisfaction. "Keep your eyes closed."
With my uninjured right hand, I reached beneath the base of the central table pylon, searching for the yellow manual override handle that every municipal facility was required to install under the state safety codes—the mechanical pressure release valve designed to dump high-pressure fresh air directly into the isolation matrix during a bio-hazard event.
My fingers wrapped around the cold iron handles. With a raw, desperate roar of pure, adrenaline-fueled will, I threw my entire body weight downward against the iron bar.
With a deafening, high-pressure roar of compressed air, the courtroom—sorry, the interrogation room’s—automated ventilation dampers instantly reversed. A powerful blast of cold, oxygen-rich air from the roof-mounted backup intake units blasted down into the vault, clearing the thick Inergen gas out through the shattered corridor frames within ten seconds.
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I pushed myself up from the floor, my chest heaving violently as my color returned to normal. Through the clearing smoke of the doorway, a tall, heavy-set man wearing a dark tailored trench coat and a high-grade military oxygen respirator stepped into the light, his automatic carbine raised and steady as his laser sight painted a bright red dot directly on the center of my son's chest.
It was Marcus Croft—the chief operating officer of Vanguard Global, and the man who had ordered the hit on my husband Arthur fourteen months ago.
