Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
Claire sat on the exam bed, the blanket gathered in her lap.
The makeshift clinic built into the second bedroom was softly lit and quiet, sterile without feeling cold.
Tuck moved with that same calm he always carried, the faint Texas lilt in his voice the only sound above the soft whir of equipment.
“Let’s take a look at that incision first,” he said. “Shouldn’t hurt, but tell me if it does.”
Claire untied the loose belt of her robe and carefully eased back as Tuck gently lifted the hem of her shirt. Her abdomen still bore the yellowed bruise to her left hip, but the incision was clean, a neat, curved scar along her right side.
Tuck leaned in, eyes scanning the site. “No signs of infection. Color’s good. Suture line is perfect. No signs of adhesions. Healing’s right on track.” He touched near the scar with the back of two fingers. She barely flinched. “Any pain?”
“Not sharp,” she said. “Mostly sore when I move.”
He nodded. “That’s normal for where it hit. That bullet tore through muscle and missed taking your liver by less than a centimeter.” His voice softened. “You’re a lucky girl.”
Claire gave a weak smile. “Doesn’t feel like it.”
Just then, Nurse Elena Reynolds stepped in, clipboard in hand, her presence calm, professional. Tuck nodded at her.
“Elena’s here as my chaperone. You wanted a refill on your pills.” He stepped back to wash his hands. “Any pelvic exam, Chase protocol says no solo providers. Especially not family.”
Claire smiled faintly. “You wrote that one, didn’t you?”
“Damn right I did.” Tuck pulled on fresh gloves. “People deserve safety, even from doctors.”
She relaxed just a little. Enough to lie back again as Nurse Reynolds moved to her side.
“I’m going to position the blanket to keep you covered.” Tuck folded a second sheet over her thighs, then he flipped a bedpan upside down beneath a pad, gently elevating her hips. “This helps me get a good view without pushing too hard on your belly.”
She flushed warm but didn’t protest. He was methodical. Kind. Careful.
“Claire,” he said after a pause, his voice calm, “how long have you and Reid been…?”
She swallowed. “Since the gala. Eight weeks ago.”
He gave a thoughtful nod, then gently inserted the speculum. “Last pap smear?” He took some swabs with what looked like cotton balls on a stick and a plastic comb.
“About six months ago. I go around my birthday, so I don’t forget. I have horrible, heavy periods. My…” She stopped herself. “Heather didn’t want me to complain.” She sighed and looked at him. “Tuck, is something wrong?”
He withdrew the speculum and met her gaze. “I’m seeing some vascular changes. Could be nothing. Could also be early pregnancy.”
Her heart stuttered. “Wait… what? I was on the pill.”
“I’m not saying you are,” he said carefully. “But I was planning to run a full panel. I’ll add a pregnancy test. Just to be sure.”
Claire pushed herself upright. “Please don’t tell Reid. Not yet. Not until we’re sure.”
Tuck nodded, peeling off his gloves. “I’m your provider, Claire. That means it’s your call who knows what and when. My lips are sealed.” He nodded to Nurse Reynolds, who gently collected the blood vials and cultures and placed them in a bag. “Hand deliver. Privacy level 5.
“And, Claire, no birth control refill,” Tuck said, turning back. “Not until I’ve got results and a clean pap. If you’re active, use protection in the meantime.”
Claire’s face went red. “Okay.”
He patted her shoulder gently. “You’re doing fine. Try to relax.”
“Tuck, thanks for everything.”
“My pleasure, darlin’.”
NORTH ACCESS CORRIDOR, SUBLEVEL 3 – 1343 HOURS
Reid stepped out of the secure meeting room, door sealing behind him with a quiet hydraulic hiss. The overhead fluorescents flickered. Then…
ALERT.
The wall panel strobed red.
“Unauthorized breach. North Sublevel. Repeat: North Sublevel.” The alert played continuously.
He was already moving. His boots hit the linoleum at a run, comms keyed to the channel. “Anchor, responding from Corridor 9. Who else is…?”
Static.
He tapped again. “Apex? Relay? Fuse?”
Nothing. Then the lights went out. Emergency generators kicked on a second later. Pale gold backup floods hummed, but it was too late. The hallway behind him sealed with a deafening slam of steel. Emergency lockdown.
He turned, weapon raised, and that was when the first attacker dropped from the ceiling. Boots. Fist. Baton.
Reid blocked high, caught the baton on his forearm, but the pain snapped down to his fingers. Fracture. Maybe two. He retaliated, drove a knee up, but another attacker surged from the shadows, blade already drawn. The knife carved a line across his flank. Warm blood spilled instantly.
He fired once—center mass. One attacker went down hard, but two remained. They didn’t speak. They didn’t posture. They just advanced.
He fired again. Center mass. The attacker barely flinched. Ballistic vest. The first attacker pushed up to his feet.
Reid’s back hit the wall. He ducked a strike, too slow, and took a baton across the cheekbone. He felt the skin split, and his vision blurred. His body screamed to give out, but instinct moved him sideways.
He swung and connected, elbow to throat. But the third attacker was already behind him. Something sharp sank into his shoulder. He gasped, pain stealing his breath.
He fired blind. Missed.
Another blow across his lower back. He staggered and dropped to one knee. Steel-toed boot to his ribs. He heard the crack, a wet crunch of cartilage. The pain burst behind his eyes like white fire. He went down hard, blood in his mouth, the taste of copper.
Then boots on either side of his head. They were going to finish it. Finish him.
The third attacker, taller, heavier, reached down and pulled Reid up by his collar. Slammed him into the wall, then did it again. Reid was a ragdoll, his head snapping back, bouncing off the concrete wall. The world pulsed black.
The man grabbed his jaw and turned his face sideways. Cold breath near his ear. “Vos says hello.” And then the knife came down low. His intent was to gut.
Reid twisted. Not far but just enough. The blade buried in his side, not his abdomen. His flank was ripped open. He screamed—rage, pain, survival, all one sound. He was bent over the attacker’s arm, forcing him to drop his gun.
He drew the blade from his boot. Steel flashed as he drove it into the attacker’s thigh.
A howl as the man went down. Reid collapsed on top of him, bleeding, dizzy, but not dead yet. The second attacker tackled him off, but not before Reid kicked him in the kneecap with every ounce of force he had left. It gave.
The first attacker behind him, the baton cracked across the back of his skull. The lights dimmed. He hit the floor again, feeling the warmth pooling beneath him.
Blood. His blood. This time, he couldn’t move. He was done. He saw Claire’s face as his eyes started to shut.
The last attacker stood over him. Raised the blade again, two hands now. Going for the kill.
Three shots. Pop. Pop. Pop from a suppressor. The attacker crumpled backward, head snapping. Dead before he fell. Again pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Thud. Thud.
Reid lay, barely moving air.
Apex’s voice rang sharp as he dropped beside him, weapon still hot. “Hanlon!”
Relay skidded in behind him. “Jesus, is he breathing?”
Reid blinked. Once. Twice. “Vos,” he rasped, voice shredded. “He sent them.”
He tried to sit up and failed. His body wouldn’t answer. Ribs were gone. Shoulder bleeding out. Vision warped. He tasted blood again. All he could say: “…he didn’t want me dead fast…”
Apex crouched to check his pulse. “Don’t try to talk.”
Reid couldn’t argue. Vos hadn’t just tried to kill him. He’d tried to take him apart. Piece by bloody piece.
Relay’s scream ripped through the corridor and the comms, ragged and panicked, bouncing off the concrete like a flare in the dark. “MAN DOWN! CRITICAL INJURIES. MED RESPONSE NOW! THREE TANGOES TOES UP.”
Apex was already over Reid, kneeling in blood. His hands were slick, pressing into the ragged tear in Reid’s flank, one knee bracing the weight.
“He’s crashing,” Apex snapped. “Pulse is weak. Bleeding out. My pressure isn’t slowing the blood flow. Flint, Bluebird, give me cover. Flint, lock the corridor. Nobody moves unless I say so!”
Footsteps thundered down the corridor. Combat boots. Tactical medkits. Bright blue gloves. “Coming through!” Trevor Foley barreled in with two medics on his heels, already barking orders. He knelt hard next to Reid, eyes laser-focused. “Talk to me, Apex.”
“Three deep stab wounds. One near the liver. Chest puncture, rib fractures, maybe a flail segment. One in the shoulder, deep. He’s not responsive.”
Foley snapped his fingers at the medics. “Chest seal now! Give me a sterile occlusive, vented if you’ve got it.”
“Can’t get a line,” the second medic called. “Veins collapsed. He’s dry!”
“EJ it.” Foley was already wiping Reid’s neck. “Prep a 14-gauge. Give me the pressure bag now. I want blood flow yesterday.”
Apex felt it. Reid wasn’t even twitching. Foley sank the needle into the external jugular with practiced force. No flinch. No response. That scared Apex more than anything.
“Get him on the board and gurney—now. Three count,” Foley called. “One, two—lift!”
Reid’s limp form shifted. Foley climbed up with them, holding the seal tight to Reid’s chest. Blood soaked the gauze. “O2 on him, now! We’re moving!”
Apex’s comm crackled. “Stack, check the bodies. Make sure they’re not rigged. If they move, you end ‘em. Lockjaw, verify IDs. I want names. And faces. Now. Scope…”
Apex’s voice hardened. “Get in the ceiling in the executive suite. Find a quiet way to put eyes on Claire. Do not alarm her. Torch, Bluebird, Flint, you’re on her. Nobody gets near her but me, Tuck or Ian. Keep her inside, safe, talking, and unaware.”