Page 68 of Anchor
“Maintain lockdown. Send Crescent 1 to intercept,” Reid said. “Do not lift protocol for anyone.” His thumb held steady. If he misaligned the blade now, it’d ground the charge and set it off.
00:11.
He slid the blade two millimeters. One more. Found the pulse line. Cut the yellow.
00:07.
The light flickered. He found the red wire next, heart pounding. The pressure trigger looked bypassed. He prayed it wasn’t a decoy. Cut red.
00:03.
The timer glitched, stuttering between frames.
00:02.
Reid exhaled hard and snapped the final silver wire from its casing. Silence.
00:00.
Nothing. No boom. No gas. No shrapnel.
Reid slumped slightly, forehead resting against the metal wall. “Disarmed,” he said into comms. “Bomb’s dead. I repeat, device is secure.”
“Copy that,” Apex said over comms. “Search teams sweeping. Intruder still in the building.”
Reid stared at the dead box. The kill switch was real. It wasn’t just to scare them. This wasn’t a message. It was an attempt to destroy Chase Ann Arbor.
CHASE HQ – SUBLEVEL SERVICE TUNNEL – 1239 HOURS
The tunnels beneath Chase Ann Arbor were meant for controlled logistics—sterile, quiet, and unseen. The intruder moved through them like vapor. Black clothing. Mask. Compact submachine gun tucked under one arm. He knew the turns and the timing. Every camera dodge had been mapped. Every patrol loop counted.
Fuse’s lockdown had sealed the upper levels. But the tunnels weren’t on the standard evac map. And someone had unlocked them remotely.
He reached the reinforced access door to the medical wing and inserted a forged clearance chip, an exact mimic of Chase staff protocol. A heartbeat later, it blinked green.
The door hissed open. He stepped through.
CHASE MEDICAL – SECURE WING, ICU ROOM 2 – 1249 HOURS
The hallway outside Claire’s ICU suite was still. Too still. Tuck Hanlon didn’t like still. He’d frowned at the lockdown notification. He adjusted the monitor display beside Claire’s bed, checking her vitals again. Steady. Low pain indicators. Slight temperature bump from the anesthetic, but nothing concerning.
Claire stirred softly under the blanket, eyelashes fluttering in half sleep. Tuck glanced toward the door. Then he felt it—that shift in pressure. The wrong kind of silence. His hand slid down his leg.
Then came the hiss of the door unlocking. Tuck moved.
The man who entered was dressed in black, face masked, gloves tight. He didn’t hesitate. The gun was already raised.
Tuck pivoted, drawing from his ankle with the fluidity of decades under fire. Two shots, center mass.Pop. Pop.
The man hit the ground without a word.
Claire jolted upright in bed with a gasp, eyes wide, unfocused. Tuck kept his gun trained as the intruder twitched once, then stilled.
“Lay back,” he managed to get the words out, placing his free hand on Claire’s leg.
A second later, Noah Paulsen slammed into the room, sidearm raised.
“Clear!” Tuck barked. “One down.”
