Chapter 5 - The Wrath of the Agency
Dust and pulverized drywall filled the emergency room hallway in a thick, grey cloud.
Screams erupted from the waiting room. Nurses dropped clipboards, security guards drew their sidearms, and patients scrambled behind vinyl curtains as heavy, rhythmic tactical boots marched through the ruined entrance.
A squad of six men poured into the hallway.
They were not local police. They were not State Troopers.
They wore pitch-black, non-reflective tactical gear without flag patches or unit insignias. They wore full-face ballistic helmets with dark, smoked visors, carrying short-barreled automatic carbines equipped with high-powered infrared aiming lasers.
In the center of the squad walked a woman.
She was fifty years old, wearing an immaculate dark grey pantsuit, her silver hair pulled back into a tight, severe bun. Her eyes were like twin pieces of flint set into ice.
This was Director Eleanor Vance-Reid—head of the Department of Special Investigations, the woman who answered directly to the Secretary of Defense and nobody else on Earth.
Two hospital security guards rushed down the hallway, their hands resting on their holstered handguns. "Stop! Drop your weapons! This is a private medical facility—"
Without even looking at them, Director Reid raised her right hand.
The lead tactical operator stepped forward, brought his carbon-fiber tactical shield around, and struck the first security guard in the chest with a force that sent the man flying backwards six feet into a row of plastic chairs. The second guard was shoved against the wall, his weapon instantly unholstered, cleared, and tossed onto the floor by an operator before he could even register what had happened.
"Secure the perimeter," Director Reid commanded, her voice calm, flat, and absolute. "Jam all civilian cellular frequencies within a half-mile radius. Nobody enters this building. Nobody leaves."
"Copy that, Director," the team lead replied through his helmet comms. "Signal jammer active. Local law enforcement comms suppressed."
Director Reid walked straight down the hallway, her high heels clicking sharply against the linoleum, following the glowing red tracking signal on a tactical tablet held by her senior aide.
She stopped at Bay Four. She yanked the curtain back.
Nurse Claire was standing beside the bed, frozen in absolute terror, holding a resuscitation mask over Maya’s lifeless face.
Director Reid’s eyes swept over the room. She saw the digital monitor displaying the flat green line. She saw the pool of dark blood pooling on the floor beneath the bed. She saw the yellow refusal form lying on the counter.
Reid stepped up to the bed, reaching two fingers down to touch the side of Maya’s throat.
There was no pulse.
"Defibrillator. NOW," Reid ordered, turning her head toward her squad’s tactical medic.
The military medic rushed forward, carrying a military-grade portable resuscitation unit. He tore open Maya’s tactical jacket, ripping the bloody shirt beneath it to expose her chest.
He slapped two high-voltage adhesive gel pads onto her ribs.
"Charge to three hundred joules!" the medic yelled. "Clear!"
THUMP.
Maya’s body arched six inches off the bed as three hundred joules of raw electrical current surged through her cardiac muscle.
Her body fell back onto the mattress.
The monitor beeped once. BEEP. Then went flat again.
"Charge again! Three hundred and sixty joules!" Reid commanded, her voice cracking with a terrifying, contained rage. "You do not die in this shithole, Captain Vance! That is an order!"
"Clear!"
THUMP.
A long, agonizing second passed.
BEEP...
Two seconds.
BEEP...
The green line on the cardiac monitor flickered, jumped, and formed a small, weak, but unmistakable sinus wave.
Heart Rate: 28.
Heart Rate: 34.
"We have a rhythm!" the medic shouted, instantly spiking a line of synthetic blood plasma into the central vein in Maya’s neck. "Pressure is returning! 40 over 20!"
Director Reid let out a long, slow breath. She reached down, picked up the yellow refusal of care document resting on the counter, and read the bold black ink written across the bottom:
REFUSED CARE - FINANCIAL. - William H. Vance.
Director Reid stared at the signature. Her face didn't twist in anger; it froze into something infinitely more dangerous—a cold, absolute, predatory calm.
"Nurse," Director Reid said, turning her head toward Claire, who was shaking uncontrollably against the wall.
"Y-yes, ma'am?" Claire stammered, her voice high and terrified.
"Did the people who signed this document leave?"
"Y-yes..." Claire choked out. "Her parents... they said... they said they had a rehearsal dinner at the Greenwich Yacht Club... they said she was faking it..."
Director Reid slowly folded the yellow paper, placing it carefully into the inner pocket of her designer grey suit jacket.
She turned to her team lead.
"Commander."
"Ma'am!"
"Prepare the medical transport chopper for Captain Vance. Transport her directly to Walter Reed National Military Medical Center under Level-One Guard protocol."
"Understood, Director. And the family?"
May you like
Director Reid looked out the window toward the night sky over Greenwich, her eyes burning with an ancient, unforgiving fire.
"Deploy Strike Team Alpha and Bravo," Reid said smoothly, pulling a pair of black leather gloves onto her hands. "We are going to a rehearsal dinner."
