Chapter 14 - Whispers in the Wall
Mark didn't return to the hospital. He knew Mount Sinai was compromised from the boiler room to the penthouse suites.
Using an encrypted satellite relay, he contacted Miller—Detective Thomas Miller, the one man in the NYPD who had bled with him during the bunker raid and refused Vance’s hush money. Within an hour, Miller had covertly evacuated Lily through the hospital’s subterranean laundry chutes, disguised as medical waste transport, and met Mark and Clara at a decommissioned safehouse in the dense forest of Bear Mountain.
The cabin was built from rough-hewn pine, isolated by miles of jagged granite and thick hemlock trees. Rain drummed against the tin roof like gunfire.
Inside, Lily lay on an old wool sofa, wrapped in blankets, a portable pulse oximeter clipped to her small finger. Her breathing was steady now, thanks to the neutralizing agent Miller had procured from an off-the-books contact at the CDC.
"She’s asleep," Clara whispered, stepping away from the couch and handing Mark a chipped mug of black coffee. Her eyes were sunken, dark purple rings bruising the pale skin beneath them.
"You need to sleep too, Clara," Mark said gently, taking the mug.
"I can’t. If I close my eyes, I hear the pumps." Clara wrapped her arms around her ribs, shivering violently despite the crackling hearth fire. "The hydraulic pumps in the bunker. Every night at 3:00 AM, they would flush the drainage lines. It sounded like... like fingernails scratching inside the iron pipes."
Suddenly, from across the room, Lily stirred.
She didn't wake up screaming. She sat up slowly, her eyes open, staring blankly at the rough pine wall separating the living room from the crawl space beneath the stairs.
Mark instantly froze. He set his mug down without making a sound, his hand drifting instinctively toward the holster at his hip.
"Daddy?" Lily whispered into the dark room.
"Yes, sweetheart?" Mark murmured, taking two slow, silent steps toward her.
"The man behind the wood is crying," Lily said matter-of-factly, pointing her small, bruised finger at the knotty pine paneling.
Clara gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth.
Mark didn't hesitate. He drew his Glock, stepped past the couch, and pressed his ear against the cold pine wall.
At first, there was only the roar of the wind through the hemlocks outside. Then, distinct and sickeningly close: the rhythmic, wet sound of human breathing, followed by the soft metallic click of a radio transceiver being keyed.
Someone was inside the four-inch wall cavity.
May you like
Mark took half a step back, raised his weapon, and pumped three hollow-point rounds through the wood at chest height.
***
