Chapter 8 - The Escape Hatch
Crash!
The heavy oak door splintered as the federal battering ram struck it a second time. Wood shards flew across the sterile white floor.
"Move! Move! Clear the room!" shouted a voice through the shattered entryway, followed by the heavy clatter of tactical gear and boots.
Inside Room 9, Silas Grayson didn't flinch. With one swift, practiced motion, he ripped open a hidden sliding panel behind the hospital bed—a private evacuation shaft installed years ago during the building's retrofitting, known only to him and his inner security circle.
"Cole, Wade, secure the rear exit," Silas ordered, his voice like iron. He turned his piercing gray eyes toward Naomi, who was frantically strapping a portable battery-powered IV pump onto his forearm, the clear tubing pulsing with life-saving antibiotics. "And you—you're coming with me."
Naomi didn't hesitate. She grabbed her stainless-steel tray, dumped the extra gauze and antiseptics into her deep scrub pockets, and hooked her fingers through the strap of the medical kit. "I'm not letting you pop a sepsis fever in the middle of an alleyway, Mr. Grayson. Let's move."
As the federal agents smashed the final bolt on the main door and poured into the suite with weapons drawn, Silas pulled Naomi behind him into the dark, narrow ventilation chute.
Wade Hollis slammed the hidden panel shut from the inside, plunging them into total, echoing darkness.
"Clear! The room is empty!" a muffled voice shouted from the suite they had just vacated. "Find the exit shafts! He couldn't have gotten far!"
The sound of shouting faded as Silas pulled Naomi swiftly down a steep, winding metal staircase hidden within the building's structural core. The air smelled of dust, old concrete, and copper. Every step sent a jolt of pain through Silas’s back, but he didn't slow down, his massive frame shielding Naomi from the rough metal edges of the shaft.
"Watch your step," Silas muttered, his hand firmly gripping her elbow to guide her through a low-ceilinged junction.
"I can walk by myself, Silas," Naomi hissed back, though she didn't pull away from his grip. In the dark, his hand felt warm, steady, and terrifyingly strong.
After three minutes of descending through the belly of the hospital, they emerged through a concealed floor-level door into the subterranean underground parking garage.
A sleek, matte-black bulletproof Mercedes SUV sat idling in the shadows, its engine purring like a caged tiger. Cole Mercer was already behind the wheel, his knuckles white on the leather steering wheel. Wade Hollis stood by the rear passenger door, scanning the shadows with his pistol drawn.
"Get in," Silas commanded, opening the door for Naomi.
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She climbed into the backseat, sliding the portable IV bag onto the leather seat beside her to keep the drip flowing smoothly into Silas’s arm. Silas slid in right behind her, slamming the heavy door shut as Cole floored the accelerator.
The Mercedes tires squealed against the concrete as the vehicle rocketed toward the exit ramp, plunging out into the blinding, chaotic light of New York City traffic just as a fleet of unmarked FBI cruisers swarmed into the garage behind them.
