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Zach Wentworth stood inches from Senator Heather Bowman, posture relaxed, voice calm. That made it worse. He wasn’t a man who raised his voice to intimidate. He didn't have to.
Heather’s hands were still folded, but her pulse at her temple was visible. Zach had seen it since their conversation started. Now it had quickened.
“I’m not in a position to authorize classified biochemical counteragents,” she said smoothly.
Zach didn’t move. “Heather, let me save you the dance. You’re a primary contributor to Langley’s black-budget weaponization board. You helped greenlight synthetic neuro-destructives for field-testing. One of them’s in your daughter’s partner’s bloodstream right now.”
Heather said nothing.
Zach stepped closer. “Get me the V-6 Echo compound.”
Her jaw clenched. “Do you even know what you’re asking for?”
“I’ll know if it saves Reid Hanlon’s life.”
Heather stared for a moment too long. Then she exhaled, pulled her phone from her jacket, and keyed in a code.
Clearance: Omega Slate. Protocol 11-V6E. Transfer approval.
Zach watched her carefully. “You knew this would happen.”
Her silence said enough.
CHASE MEDICAL OR 3 – 0451 HOURS
Ian shoved through the double doors of the OR, yanking a surgical mask over his face as he entered the controlled chaos. Bright lights beat down on the table where Reid lay, chest rising in the bursts from the ventilator, blood pooling beneath him faster than suction could keep up.
Tuck continued squeezing his heart to keep blood circulating.
“There's an antidote,” Ian said, voice muffled but firm behind the mask. “Langley has it. They're flying it in now, fastest possible, but it's still about three hours out.”
All eyes turned for a heartbeat, then back to the failing man on the table.
Trevor Foley, sleeves already soaked to the elbows, looked at Ian, then down to Reid’s chest and abdomen open on the table. His face was a mask of focus and sweat. “We’ll give it our best shot,” he said calmly. “Let’s drop his temp. Now. Get cooling blankets, ice packs, everything.”
Beth, already at the head of the table, placed lap pads around his oozing and bleeding organs with rapid precision. Pete Walter worked a vascular clamp into place with practiced aggression, while Tuck Hanlon called for another tray of packed gauze, hands slick with crimson as he maintained cardiac compressions.
Trevor barked, “Ian, he’s O positive. I need everything you can get, plasma, whole blood, platelets, you name it. Run to ourblood bank and start pulling it yourself if you have to. Put out a call for donations.”
Ian nodded once, then turned on his heel without another word.
Behind him, Foley leaned back in. “Let’s keep him alive long enough to earn that damn miracle.”
INTERROGATION ROOM 2 – 0501 HOURS
The room felt colder than it should have. Ian didn’t know if it was the steel walls or the betrayal sitting across the table. Terry Fields looked older under the LED glare, his eyes bruised with things Ian hadn’t seen before. Not fear. Not guilt. Something worse: acceptance.
Killian Moynihan stood against the far wall, arms folded, silent but present. Ian sat.
“You’re ready to talk,” Ian said. “Why now?”
Terry exhaled, a slow breath like it cost him something. “After what was done to Reid.”
Ian’s voice went sharp. “They did that, not us.”
Terry nodded once. “I know. That’s what broke it. Watching Vos’s people take someone like Reid and carve him up. That’s when I knew I couldn’t justify it anymore.”
Ian leaned forward, tone cutting. “You watched?”
