Page 102 of Anchor
“No,” Claire said sharply. “You come with a burden. I’ve been carrying it since I was eleven.”
Heather exhaled softly. “You were always dramatic.”
Zach moved slightly forward, but Claire lifted a hand, stopping him. She smiled, cold and efficient. “Let’s be clear,” she said. “This is the last room you’ll ever control. From this moment on, every whisper of your name will be tied to every lie, every silence, and every body you buried in red tape.”
Heather’s lips parted. “You can’t do that.”
Claire straightened. “I already did.”
Kieran stepped forward then, tablet in hand. He tapped once, and the wall-mounted screen blinked to life, displaying a single Chase executive chain authorization form. Heather’s digital signature flashed on screen. Time-stamped, labeled:Black Tier Override Authorization – Operative Vos.
Claire’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Smile for the press, Mother. You’re going to be on every headline by lunch.”
Heather’s face didn’t break, but she stopped blinking. And for the first time in Claire’s life, she watched the performance fail.
THIRTY-THREE
CHASE MEDICAL – ROOFTOP HELIPAD – 0712 HOURS
The rotor wash hammered the roof like war drums, violent, deafening, and relentless. Martin Bailey hit the tarmac before the skids had even settled, helmet under one arm. The black case was clutched in the other like it weighed more than his own name. He didn’t wait for clearance, didn’t radio down. He ran.
He flew down three levels and through two locked checkpoints. The guards parted without a word. He reached the corridor and saw the blood. It streaked across the tile in long arterial arcs. Slick. Fresh. Someone had slipped earlier; he could see the boot print. The bleach hadn’t masked the truth.
He didn’t stop. He hit the OR doors at a sprint.
Inside, the room was a silent hell, the kind where everyone moved fast, but no one shouted. He learned early in his military career, this meant it was bad.
The lights were cold, the floor sticky, the walls too clean. And on the table, wide open and packed in ice, was Reid.
Tuck Hanlon was kneeling on the table, literally on the table, his hands sunk to the wrists in Reid’s chest, compressing a heart that had stopped being a heart three hours ago. The forced beats had made it into a war drum of its own. His sleeves were soaked. Blood sluiced down the side like runoff in a gutter.
Martin’s eyes found Beth, his wife, gowned, gloved and red from the elbows down.
Her eyes met his for one fraction of a second. That was all.
“Clear!” someone shouted. The crowd parted likemuscle under a scalpel.
Martin stepped forward and wordlessly handed off the black case. Trevor Foley, trauma surgeon, snapped the lid open with blood-wet gloves. The temp-seal hissed as it cracked. Inside were two vials of frost-licked amber, injection kits, and folded triplicate instructions donning military timestamps.
Foley read fast. “Two doses: one IV, one intrathecal. We go spine and bloodstream. Simultaneous if possible.”
Pete Walter was already moving. “We need to flip him.”
Beth’s voice sliced through, “We’re packed, and he has an open chest.”
“Then re-pack and wrap the thoracotomy,” Foley said without hesitation. “Or we lose him in three minutes.”
Beth snapped into motion. “Gauze. Full wrap. Now!”
Tuck didn’t look up. He just kept going—one compression, then another. He wasn’t speaking nor blinking. He was chasing the rhythm of a heart that wasn’t his but somehow belonged to him.
Martin felt something sharp crawl up his spine. Tuck wasn’t letting go.
“Hold pressure,” Beth called. “Tuck, on my mark—three more compressions, then brace. We lift on four.”
Martin watched as sweat traced a path down Tuck’s cheek. The man was stone. Blood-coated, ice-numb, and still moving.
“One.”
