Chapter 7 - The Extraction
Victoria’s arrogant composure cracked completely, her painted face crumbling into an expression of raw, naked terror.
Beside her, Evan looked as though he was about to vomit on his designer Italian shoes, his chest heaving with shallow, panicked breaths.
"A... a state agent?" Evan stammered, his voice squeaking like a terrified child's. "Claire... Claire is just an accountant!"
Mara turned her head slowly, looking at Evan with an expression of such profound disgust that he physically took a step back.
"Claire Vance has been running a joint state and federal sting operation on your counterfeit export company for nine months, you coward," Mara hissed.
"Where is the door?" Mara barked, drawing her tactical sidearm and raising it toward the ceiling.
"East wing... the bridal suite at the end of the hall," Evan whimpered instantly, pointing a trembling finger toward the service corridor.
"Evan, shut your mouth!" Victoria shrieked, lunging toward her son with her claws bared.
"Arrest that woman immediately for obstruction of justice and human endangerment!" Mara commanded without looking back.
Two hulking federal marshals lunged forward, grabbing Victoria by her thin wrists and twisting her arms violently behind her back.
The antique emerald necklace snapped from her throat, scattering priceless green gemstones across the red-stained marble floor.
"Get your filthy hands off me! Evan, do something! Call our lawyers!" Victoria shrieked as steel handcuffs ratcheted tightly around her wrists.
Mara ignored the matriarch’s screams, sprinting down the service hallway accompanied by four tactical agents and two flight paramedics.
The paramedics pushed a heavy mobile trauma gurney down the narrow corridor, their trauma kits open and ready for emergency neonatal surgery.
They arrived at the heavy oak door of the east bridal bathroom, finding the heavy brass deadbolt firmly locked from the outside.
"Claire! Can you hear me? It's Mara!" the lead agent yelled, slamming her palm against the heavy wood.
From inside the soundproofed room, a faint, ragged whimper answered, sounding like a dying animal gasping for its final breath.
"The deadbolt is engaged from the exterior," Mara said, stepping back and nodding to the tactical breacher beside her.
"Take the door down right now!"
A massive tactical operator stepped forward with a sixty-pound steel battering ram, swinging it back with fluid, practiced precision.
The steel ram struck the brass lock with the force of an artillery shell, splintering the heavy mahogany door instantly.
With a second deafening strike, the door frame gave way completely, the heavy oak slab collapsing inward and crashing against the bathroom tiles.
Mara and the two paramedics rushed into the room, their tactical flashlights cutting through the dim, perfumed air.
The sight that greeted them brought the hardened tactical agents to a dead, horrified halt.
I was lying in the corner beside the shattered perfume bottles, my hair soaked with sweat and my gown completely drenched in blood.
Between my trembling, bruised legs, the crown of my premature infant’s head was fully visible, blue and struggling for air.
"I’m here, Claire... oh God, Claire, I’m right here," Mara choked out, dropping her tactical gear and sliding onto her knees on the bloody floor.
"Save my baby... Mara, please just save my baby," I whispered, my vision fading into a tunnel of gray darkness as my head fell back.
The lead flight paramedic threw down his sterile field kit, shouting urgent vital statistics to his partner.
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"Maternal pulse is thready at one-forty! Infant is presenting crowning with severe cord presentation!"
"We need to deliver this baby right now on this floor, or we lose them both!"
