Chapter 6 - The Glass Chamber
Mark plunged into the subterranean facility.
The air inside was sterile, cold, and tinged with the choking chemical stench of thermite grenades. Alarms wailed overhead, bathing the clean, white-tiled corridors in pulsating crimson emergency lighting.
*“Evacuation protocol in effect. All personnel must proceed to surface level immediately,”* an automated female voice droned over the PA system.
Mark moved with tactical precision, clearing corners, the pistol held steady before him. He passed through laboratories filled with shattered computer terminals and overturned filing cabinets. Arthur’s cleanup crew had worked fast, setting localized incendiary devices to melt the hard drives.
Gunfire echoed from the lower level.
Mark rushed down a spiral concrete stairwell, dropping to one knee as he reached the landing. At the end of a long, reinforced glass corridor, two men in black tactical gear were planting timed charges around a massive, transparent room.
It was the Glass Room.
Behind four-inch-thick, bullet-resistant acrylic stood a furnished living space: a bed, a small kitchenette, a bookshelf, and an easel.
And standing in the center of the enclosure, clutching an unlit oil lamp like a weapon, was Clara.
She wore a simple gray cotton dress. Her long chestnut hair was streaked with premature silver, her cheeks hollow, her skin porcelain-pale from three years without sunlight. But her eyes—those fierce, indomitable hazel eyes—were ablaze with survival.
One of the mercenaries turned to arm a thermite block on the door's locking mechanism.
Mark stepped out from the stairwell.
"Step away from the glass," Mark said, his voice flat, devoid of mercy.
The mercenary whipped around, raising his submachine gun. Mark fired three rounds in rapid succession. The double-tap caught the man center-mass; the third shattered his helmet visor. The second guard lunged for cover, firing a burst that shredded the drywall above Mark's head.
Mark rolled into an alcove, waited for the reload click, and stepped out, delivering a fatal shot to the mercenary’s chest.
Silence descended, broken only by the wail of the fire alarm and Clara’s frantic breathing against the glass.
Mark dropped his weapon and ran to the enclosure, slamming his open palms against the clear surface.
"Clara!"
Clara dropped the lamp. It shattered on the linoleum floor. She pressed her hands against his from the other side, tears instantly tracing the hollow contours of her cheeks. Her lips trembled as she let out a sound that was half-gasp, half-sob.
"Mark... oh God, Mark... you found me."
"I'm getting you out! Stand back from the door!"
Mark grabbed the electronic keycard from the fallen mercenary's belt and swiped it across the terminal.
*ERROR: OVERRIDE LOCK ENGAGED.*
A cold voice spoke from behind him in the corridor.
May you like
"It requires biometric authentication, little brother. Specifically, mine."
***
