Chapter 8 - The Redoubt
The back office of the warehouse had been converted into a sterile, makeshift emergency room. Fluorescent bulbs hummed softly overhead, their harsh light reflecting off stainless-steel trays and neatly organized medical supplies. Elena worked with ruthless efficiency, hooking Clara up to a portable fetal monitor while administering a dose of terbutaline to halt the premature contractions.
The rhythmic, rapid thump-thump-thump of the baby's heartbeat filled the small room, steady and strong. Clara let out a long, shuddering breath, her fingers loosening their death grip on the edge of the mattress.
"The contractions are slowing down," Elena announced, checking the monitor strip. "Cervix is closed. The baby is in distress from the adrenaline spike, but you aren't in active labor yet. You need absolute rest, Clara. No stress, no moving."
"That's a luxury we don't have, Doc," Marcus said from the doorway. He had cleaned the blood from his face, revealing a jagged cut along his hairline, but his dark eyes were fixed on the security monitors mounted above the desk.
On the black-and-white screens, three vehicles had just pulled up outside the gate of Miller Automotive. None of them were marked cruisers. They were sleek, black SUVs, their headlights extinguished. Men in civilian clothing were fanning out across the perimeter, carrying tactical rifles held low at the low-ready position.
"They tracked the truck," Diego whispered, leaning over Marcus’s shoulder. "How? You checked the wheel wells for transponders before we left the culvert."
"They didn't track the truck," Clara said weakly from the gurney, her voice thick with guilt. She pointed toward the canvas bag resting on the steel table. "The safe key. My father... he was paranoid in his final weeks. He had an RFID asset tag embedded in the acrylic head of the key so he could locate it if Trent tried to steal it."
Marcus didn't waste time on regret or blame. He reached over, picked up the heavy brass key, walked over to a heavy bench vise mounted against the wall, clamped the key down, and struck the acrylic head with a three-pound sledgehammer. The plastic shattered, revealing a micro-transmitter no larger than a grain of rice. He crushed it beneath the sole of his boot into powder.
"Too late for that now," Diego muttered, watching the monitors. "They’re breaching the east bay door."
Marcus turned to Elena. "There’s a storm cellar under the machine shop floor. Takes you out through the old drainage pipe toward the riverbank. Take Clara and the bag. Diego will go with you."
"What about you?" Clara sat up, panic flooding her eyes anew. "Marcus, you can't fight them alone. They have rifles. They’re here to kill everyone in this room!"
Marcus reached behind the door and pulled out a heavy twelve-gauge Remington shotgun from Elena’s gun rack, checking the magazine tube with a practiced thumb. "They're here for the bag, Clara. As long as I'm making noise up here, they won't search the drain pipes."
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He looked at her, his face softening for just a fraction of a second. "Your father hired my father thirty years ago when nobody else would give an ex-con a chance to pour concrete. Old man Miller gave my family a life. I'm just paying back the interest."
Before Clara could speak, the metal roll-up door of the main shop shuddered under a violent breaching charge.
