Chapter 27 - The Breath of the Beast
The steel blast doors groaned, metal shrieking against metal as the heavy ram struck the outer reinforcing bars. Dust rained down from the high steel girders, speckling the glass between us and Lily.
"They're through the first perimeter gate!" Evans yelled through the intercom, panic finally breaking through his flat tone. His hand shook noticeably now, the needle tip wavering against the plastic port of Lily’s IV line. "Vincent! Open the doors! Dante's men will level this place with everyone inside!"
"Now, Claire," Vincent commanded.
I slammed the manual bypass lever down.
A high-pitched hiss screamed through the clean room's intake vents as high-pressure nitrogen flooded the ceiling diffusers, dropping the oxygen saturation inside the glass enclosure instantly. Evans looked up sharply, confused by the sudden draft. His eyes went wide as he realized the air had gone dead.
He opened his mouth to gasp, but nitrogen doesn't burn; it simply deprives the brain of fuel without warning. His knees buckled almost instantly. The syringe wavered. Desperation flared across his face as he lunged forward, trying to jam the plunger down by sheer body weight.
Vincent fired three rapid shots not at the glass, but directly into the heavy hinges of the airlock seal. Sparks erupted in violent blue arcs. Vincent threw his entire shoulder against the heavy door, wrenching it off its battered track with a roar of sheer physical fury.
He didn't draw a breath inside the chamber. Lunging forward, Vincent caught Evans by the wrist just as the needle touched the injection membrane. With a brutal twist of his arm, Vincent snapped the doctor's forearm back. The syringe flew from Evans's grip, skittering across the linoleum and shattering against the far wall.
Evans collapsed like an empty coat, unconscious from rapid hypoxia.
Vincent scooped Lily from the bed, wrapping her in the sterile blanket along with the portable oxygen pack. He turned and stumbled out of the containment bay, gasping for clean air the second his boots crossed the threshold back into the main warehouse floor.
I rushed to meet him, my arms wrapping around the bundle of blankets. Lily’s eyelids fluttered. She let out a tiny, frightened whimper, her small hands clutching my sweater.
"I have her," I choked out, tears finally breaking free down my cheeks. "I have her, Vincent."
"We move," Vincent ordered, coughing from the thin air of the chamber. He picked up his fallen tactical rifle from the bench. "The blast doors have three minutes before Dante’s breaching charges shear the hinges."
"Where do we go?" I asked, holding Lily tight against my chest. "The main exit is blocked. The river canal is cut off."
"The maintenance sub-level," Vincent said, racking the bolt back. "The old storm drainage lines run south toward the rail yards. But we have to cross forty yards of open factory floor to reach the hatch."
Before he could finish his sentence, the outer blast doors buckled inward with an ear-splitting detonation. The shockwave threw us both back against the consoles. Smoke, sulfur, and the blinding glare of high-powered tactical spotlights poured through the breach.
Through the haze walked Dante Moretti.
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He wasn't wearing tactical gear. He wore a tailored charcoal wool coat over a crisp white shirt, his silver hair immaculate despite the blast dust settling around him. Flanking him were eight men armed with submachine guns, their lasers cutting through the swirling gray smoke like red needles.
"Vincent," Dante's voice echoed through the ruined warehouse, smooth and leisurely, as though he were greeting his nephew at a family dinner. "You always were too sentimental to make a proper capo. Put the gun down. Let me look at my great-niece."
