Chapter 12 - The Descent of Fire
The alarms wailed relentlessly, flashing emergency crimson through the surgical bunker. Christian swore under his breath, dropping the needle onto the metal tray. He rushed to the security monitors on the wall, his eyes widening in disbelief.
On the screens, the perimeter gates lay flattened in twisted metal heaps. Men in matte-black armor advanced through the driving rain with relentless military precision, dismantling Burke’s hired guards within seconds. Leading the assault, wearing a tactical vest over his torn dress shirt, was Julian Thorne.
""Impossible,"" Christian muttered, his veneer of aristocratic composure slipping into sheer panic. ""He doesn't have the authority!""
Christian turned to his lead technician. ""Initiate the purge protocol! Incinerate the records, flush the biohazard tanks, and vent the surgical suites! Nobody leaves this bunker alive!""
The technician hesitated. ""Sir... there are thirty patients in the holding cells—""
Christian pulled a pistol from beneath his scrub jacket and shot the technician between the eyes. He slammed his palm down on the red manual override switch, initiating a five-minute countdown.
Lois screamed against her restraints as heavy steel blast doors began sealing shut across the observation room. Thick, yellow-tinged neurotoxin gas began hissing from the ceiling vents directly into Clara’s glass room.
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""Clara!"" Lois shrieked, thrashing violently, the leather straps tearing the skin of her wrists.
The reinforced glass doors of the surgical suite blew inward, and Julian strode through the smoke, his rifle raised.
