Chapter 7 - The Federal Warrant
The word marshals hung in the sterile air of the suite like smoke after a gunshot.
Cole Mercer and Wade Hollis moved with terrifying synchronization. In less than three seconds, Cole had slung a tactical submachine gun out from a hidden wall compartment, while Wade slammed the heavy steel deadbolt on the suite's main door, locking it from the inside.
"How many?" Silas asked. His voice didn't rise an octave. It dropped into a quiet, lethal register that made the room feel twenty degrees colder.
"Four agents at the front desk, backed by local NYPD tactical units," Julian Keller stammered, sweat beading on his forehead. "They have a federal judge's order to seize all electronic equipment, financial records, and medical logs associated with Grayson Harbor Logistics. They know you're here, Silas. Someone in Zurich leaked your location."
Silas didn't panic. He didn't curse. He simply turned his head slowly toward the reinforced glass window, watching the distant, crawling traffic on the FDR Drive below.
"They want my records," Silas said quietly. He reached down, picked up his tactical pistol from the table, and slid it into the leather shoulder holster beneath his black shirt. "They won't find them."
"Silas, you can't shoot federal marshals in the middle of a hospital!" Julian cried out, wringing his hands in sheer terror. "You'll bring the entire Department of Justice down on your head!"
"I don't need to shoot them, Julian," Silas replied, his eyes cold and calculated. "I just need to leave."
"Leave?" Naomi stepped directly into his field of vision, blocking his path toward the private bathroom door. "Are you out of your mind? You have an active, resistant staph infection along an open surgical wound! If you pull that IV line out and go on the run, you'll be septic within twenty-four hours. You'll die in the back of a car before you hit the state line!"
Silas looked down at her. For a moment, the iron mask slipped, revealing a flash of something dark, ancient, and exhausted.
"Let me die, then," Silas said softly. "It wouldn't be the first time someone tried to arrange it."
"No," Naomi said, her voice ringing out with absolute, unshakable steel. She reached out and grabbed the lapel of his black shirt, shocking both Cole and Wade into raising their weapons. She didn't care. "I didn't spend twelve years studying trauma medicine to watch a stubborn, arrogant billionaire bleed out on a highway because he was too proud to finish a course of antibiotics."
Silas stared down at her small hand gripping his shirt. A slow, intense silence filled the room, broken only by the muffled sound of heavy boots pounding down the hallway outside.
Bang! Bang!
The heavy oak door rattled under the weight of a federal battering ram.
"Open up! Federal Marshals! Open the door or we will breach!" a voice roared from the corridor.
Silas looked into Naomi’s dark, blazing eyes. A strange, breathless sound escaped his chest—half a laugh, half a surrender.
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"You really are out of your mind, Naomi Brooks," he muttered.
"Takes one to know one," she shot back. "Now, sit down on the bed, roll up your sleeve, and let me hook up this portable IV pump. If we're going to run from the FBI, we're going to do it with your immune system intact."
