Page 45 of Shadows of Recovery

Damon descended the stairs, fury and impatience etched on his face. He grabbed her by the arm, pulling her roughly to her feet. Sophie bit back a scream, tears streaming down her face as her broken ankle shrieked in protest. Ignoring her pain, he dragged her toward a hidden tunnel entrance.

The tunnel was dark and foul-smelling, the stench of sewage overwhelming. “Are you surprised? That pretty clerk in the county offices, for some dinner, jewelry and a good screwing, removed these ancient plans from the records, ensuring the police have no idea these tunnels even exist. When the hospital was renovated, an entire new system was built. By the time they find this escape route, we will be long gone.”

Sophie stumbled through the tunnel, each step sending jolts of agony up her leg. But every attempt to slow down was met with brutal force. Damon’s grip was like iron, and he seemed unfazed by her suffering.

As they emerged from the tunnel into the cold night air, Damon cursed under his breath. He realized Sophie’s broken ankle was slowing them down significantly. His eyes flashed with anger and disdain.

“You’re nothing but dead weight now,” he spat, and, without another word, he tossed her into a wet, icy, muddy culvert filled with sewage.

Sophie cried out in pain as she landed, the freezing mud seeping into her scrubs, and the rancid water stinging her wounds. She struggled to get up, but her body was too weak, her ankle too damaged to support her weight.

Damon and his men disappeared into the night, leaving her behind. Sophie lay in the filth, shivering and sobbing, feeling utterly abandoned and hopeless. She could hear the distant sounds of the police raid beginning, the bedlam and violence Damon had planned for. But she was alone, hidden from view, in the foulest, most forsaken place she could imagine.

Eighteen

Brad, Ethan, and Alex Marcel sat huddled together in the command center, their faces etched with worry and fatigue. The room felt oppressive, thick with the scent of stale coffee and the constant buzz of strained murmurs as law enforcement personnel scurried about, trying to make sense of the chaos unfolding just a few hundred yards away.

Brad could barely keep still, the tension coursing through him like a live wire. He had been through countless crises, but this one felt different. The stakes were higher, the silence more ominous. His gut churned with the certainty that every second they waited was a second too long.

Alex Marcel, a seasoned investigator from the US Attorney's office, had finally been given permission to join the crisis team—a sign of just how dire the situation had become. Brad could see the lines of worry deepening on Alex’s face, a reflection of his own thoughts.

Six hours. Six excruciating hours since the last hostage was released. The fact that Damon had stopped answering the phone two hours ago only added to the growing sense of dread.

The silence is the worst part,Brad thought, his jaw clenched so tight, it ached. He glanced at Ethan, his friend and ally in this nightmare, and saw the same fraying resolve. Ethan, always the calm one, now looked as if he was barely holding it together.

"We've got to go in," Brad muttered, the desperation in his voice barely concealed. The words felt like a release, but they were also an admission—an admission that time was running out, and they were losing whatever tenuous grip they had on the situation. "We have no idea what's happening with the hostages."

Ethan nodded, his normally calm demeanor shattered, revealing the raw fear beneath. "Every minute we wait, the situation gets worse. Those explosions... they can't be good."

The small explosions reverberated through the night, each one a sharp reminder of the danger inside. They were running out of options, and Brad knew it. His mind raced, trying to grasp any semblance of control, but it was slipping through his fingers.

Just then, Agent Weiss, an FBI operative, approached with a grave expression. His presence only intensified the sense of impending disaster. "We've lost our ears inside the waiting room," he reported, his voice grim. "Communications are down. We can't hear anything inside."

The words hit Brad like a punch to the gut. The room seemed to close in around him, the air thickening with their collective dread. Silence from inside the building could mean anything—and none of it was good.

Brad’s mind raced to the only conclusion left. There was no more time to debate. No more waiting, hoping for a peaceful resolution. The decision had to be made, and it had to be made now.

"Let's move," he said firmly, his voice cutting through the haze of uncertainty like a blade. His decision, though driven by desperation, was grounded in the knowledge that they couldn’t afford to wait any longer. "We breach the entrances. Now."

Within moments, the command center erupted into a flurry of activity. Brad watched as teams of heavily armed law enforcement officers moved with precision, their faces set in grim resolve. These were men and women who knew the risks, who understood the stakes. And now, they were about to put their lives on the line to save others.

Ethan and Alex were beside him, their faces mirrors of his own—fear and a fierce need to do something, anything, to end this nightmare. As they moved toward the building, Brad felt his responsibility like never before. He made the call, and now he had to live with whatever happened next.

The world outside seemed to fade away as the law enforcement personnel approached the building. The explosions, the silence, the darkness—it all became background noise to the singular focus driving Brad forward. He wasn’t just walking into a building; he was walking into the unknown, into the heart of a nightmare that had to end.

As the doors to the building loomed ahead, Brad steeled himself for whatever they would find inside. There was no turning back. Not now. Not ever. They were going in, and they wouldn’t stop until this was over—one way or another.

As the teams moved in, a chilling realization hit Brad like a punch to the gut. The ER wing had been blocked by the explosions. Small explosive devices, meticulously placed, had transformed the corridors into a deadly obstacle course. The first wave of officers was met with a series of devastating blasts, and the screams of the injured tore through the air, sending a shiver down Brad’s spine.

“Medic! We need a medic over here!” a voice shouted.

Brad’s heart raced as he watched Tristan, his brother James, and a team of National Guard medical personnel spring into action. They moved like those accustomed to war zones, not hospitals. Tristan’s face was a mask of grim focus as he rushed to treat the wounded, his hands moving quickly despite the horror unfolding around them.

The scene was a nightmarish symphony of gunfire, explosions, and cries of pain. The air was thick with smoke and the acrid stench of burning debris, making it hard to see, harder to breathe. Brad’s ears rang from the blasts, but he forced himself to push through the sensory overload. There was no time to waste.

As the building was slowly cleared room by room, the reality of the situation became starkly clear, and a cold dread settled in Brad’s gut. Damon Whitlock and most of his men were gone, vanished into the night like shadows. But what gnawed at Brad’s insides, what made his hands clench into fists, was Sophie’s absence.

“She has to be here,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. He scanned the faces of the evacuees being treated by the medics, desperately searching for any sign of her. “We need to find her. Check everyone. Question anyone from the Eldon Sect left behind.”

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