Chapter 5 - Inside the Archive
Before I could question her further, the heavy reinforced door behind her clicked.
The deadbolt turned from the inside.
The door creaked open an inch, and a tiny, pale face peeked out through the gap. Dark curls fell across his forehead. Big, frightened brown eyes locked onto mine.
“Daddy?”
“Daniel,” I breathed, dropping my weapon back into its holster and falling to my knees.
The door swung wide open. My son stumbled out, his hospital gown trailing behind him, and threw his small arms around my neck so hard we both nearly tumbled backward. I squeezed him against my chest, burying my face in his hair, feeling the frantic, steady thumping of his heartbeat against mine.
He was breathing. He was alive.
“I was scared, Daddy,” he whispered into my shoulder. “The bad men were looking for me.”
“I’ve got you,” I murmured, my voice shaking for the first time in years. “I am right here. No one is ever going to touch you.”
I looked up over Daniel’s small shoulder at the young janitor. She was watching us quietly, wiping a streak of soot and blood from her cheek with the back of her sleeve.
“What’s your name?” I asked her softly.
“Maya,” she answered, her voice steadying. “Maya Lin.”
“Maya,” I said, standing up while keeping Daniel securely in my arms. “You saved my son’s life today.”
She looked down at her bloodied knuckles. “I just... I saw them dragging those guards down the hall. And then I heard them talking about a boy in 412. Something didn't feel right. They weren't cops. They weren't doctors.”
“Who were they?” a voice interrupted from behind us.
It was my lead security operative, Marcus, finally arriving with three heavily armed tactical units, bursting out of the service stairwell with weapons raised. He took in the scene—the unconscious mercenary on the floor, the bleeding janitor, and me holding my son.
Marcus lowered his rifle slightly, his eyes hard as flint. “Colonel. Situation?”
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“Secure the floor, Marcus,” I ordered, my eyes narrowing as I looked down at the tactical patch on the unconscious man's uniform—a patch with no insignia, belonging to a private contractor outfit known to operate in the grayest zones of international espionage.
“They weren't here for a standard hospital raid,” I whispered, holding Daniel tight. “Someone in the government, or someone with massive clearance, just tried to snatch my six-year-old son. And we are going to find out why.”
