Chapter 5 - The Ambush at St. Jude’s Safehouse
"How long do we have?!" I choked out, watching that sinister, mechanical light pulse beneath my baby’s flesh.
"Three minutes. Maybe four before the delivery valve fully opens," Marcus said, his voice cracking with a tension I had never heard in him before. He grabbed a heavy surgical kit from the floorboards, tearing open sterile packets with his teeth. "I can't excise the capsule, Mariana. But I can short-circuit the telemetry trigger before the valve solenoid completes the injection cycle."
"How?!"
Marcus pulled a portable, battery-powered automated external defibrillator from the trunk kit. He detached the standard adult paddles, splicing the copper leads with a pair of sterile micro-alligator clips using a pair of wire strippers from his utility belt.
"Electro-magnetic pulse," Marcus said, sweat stinging his eyes. "If I pass a calibrated low-joule direct electrical current through the skin directly above the casing, the charge will fry the micro-controller’s printed circuit board. It will fuse the solenoid shut permanently."
"Will it hurt him? Marcus, his heart!"
"It could induce a cardiac arrhythmia," Marcus said, looking directly into my eyes with brutal honesty. "It could stop his heart, Mariana. But if I don't do it, that second dose of synthetic vector *will* kill him. We have no other choice. Choose now."
I looked down at Leo. His beautiful, round face, the golden eyelashes he had inherited from me, the tiny cleft in his chin that belonged to the man who had betrayed us. He was dying. Right here in the front seat of a rusted Volvo in a filthy alleyway.
"Do it," I whispered, my heart fracturing into dust. "Do it now."
Marcus positioned the two micro-clips on either side of the swollen puncture mark, barely a millimeter above the pulsing amber LED. He dialed the AED’s energy selector down to its lowest possible setting: five joules.
"Hold his head," Marcus commanded. "Do not let him twitch."
I pressed Leo’s head firmly against the worn vinyl of the seat, burying my face in his hair, whispering into his ear: "I love you, Leo. Mommy’s here. I’m right here. Fight it, baby. Fight."
"Charging," Marcus said. The unit emitted a rising, high-pitched whine.
*Zzzt-POP.*
Leo’s entire body arched violently. A sharp, muffled crack sounded from beneath his skin, accompanied by the faint, sickening odor of scorched flesh and vaporized silicon. The amber LED went dark.
Simultaneously, Leo went completely, terrifyingly limp.
The shallow, raspy sound of his breathing stopped.
"He’s in asystole!" Marcus roared, dropping the leads, ripping open Leo’s onesie, and pressing two fingers into the center of his tiny, bird-like sternum. "One, two, three, four..."
"Leo!" I screamed, slamming my hands against the dashboard. "Leo, breathe! Please, God, Leo!"
Marcus gave two tiny puffs of air into Leo’s mouth, then resumed chest compressions with methodical, desperate precision. "Come on, kid. Don't you dare die on me. Arthur will kill me in the afterlife. Come on!"
Thirty seconds.
Forty-five seconds.
The silence inside the car was suffocating, broken only by the hiss of rain on the roof and Marcus’s rhythmic counting.
Then—
A sharp, ragged gasp.
Leo’s tiny chest heaved upward. He let out a loud, high-pitched, furious wail—the sweetest, most magnificent sound I had ever heard in my entire life. His pale cheeks suddenly flushed with an angry, defiant crimson as air filled his lungs.
I collapsed over him, sobbing uncontrollably, pressing my lips against his forehead, his cheeks, his tear-streaked eyes. He was alive. The amber light was dead. The delivery had failed.
Marcus slumped back against the steering wheel, his chest heaving, wiping a river of sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve. "The capsule’s fried. He’s stable for now. But the first dose is still circulating in his system. We need the original synthetic antigen from Ryan’s private lab to bind and neutralize it before permanent cellular remodeling occurs."
Before we could catch our breath, the passenger door window was suddenly illuminated by the blinding glare of two high-beam headlights.
A sleek, black Mercedes Maybach pulled across the mouth of the alleyway, completely blocking our exit. Behind it, two black Cadillac Escalades idled, their engines purring like predatory beasts.
The driver’s door of the Maybach opened.
A man stepped out into the rain, holding an open umbrella. He wasn't wearing a tactical vest or carrying a carbine. He was wearing an impeccably tailored charcoal suit, his silk tie fluttering slightly in the cold wind.
Ryan.
My husband walked slowly toward the Volvo, his face illuminated by the harsh streetlights. He looked tired, his hair disheveled by the rain, but his eyes were wide, bloodshot, and completely unhinged.
Behind him, two armed men stepped out of the Escalades, keeping their hands beneath their long coats.
Marcus reached for his Glock, but I placed my hand firmly over his wrist.
"No," I said, my voice dead, cold, and entirely devoid of fear.
"Mariana, they will kill us," Marcus warned.
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"They won't shoot in public, not with Leo in the car," I said, unbuckling my seatbelt and wrapping Leo securely inside the wool blanket, holding him against my chest. "He didn't come here to kill me, Marcus. He came here to negotiate. And I am going to make him pay for every drop of my son’s blood."
***
