Chapter 7 - The Inheritance of Fear
The air grew colder as they reached the roof landing on the twelfth floor. The heavy steel door leading to the helipad was chained shut from the inside—a security measure meant to keep unauthorized personnel off the roof.
Maya stepped back, raised the MP5, and emptied five rounds directly into the brass padlock. Sparks flew, and the lock shattered, dropping the heavy chains to the floor.
Maya kicked the door open, stepping out into the freezing night air.
Rain was pouring over New York City, blowing in heavy gusts across the wide, tar-covered roof of Saint Jude’s. The neon red sign of the hospital glowed through the fog, casting long, bloody shadows across the landing pad.
In the center of the roof sat the Vance corporate helicopter—a sleek, dark twin-engine aircraft, its rotors still motionless.
Maya pulled Lily behind the heavy brick housing of the elevator shaft, sheltering the child from the driving rain.
"Listen to me, Lily," Maya said, taking the USB drive out of her pocket and pressing it into the child's small, trembling hand. "This holds everything. It proves what she did to you, what she did to your mother, and what she planned to do to hundreds of other children. If anything happens to me, you give this to the police. Do you understand?"
"No!" Lily cried, wrapping her small arms around Maya’s neck, her body shivering violently. "Don't leave me, Maya! Please!"
"I'm not leaving you," Maya promised, kissing the child's wet forehead. "But we are not the only ones on this roof."
From the opposite side of the elevator housing, the steady, rhythmic click of leather heels sounded against the wet tar.
May you like
Eleanor Vance stepped out into the rain. She was still wearing her pristine white suit, now ruined by the wind, holding a small, silver-plated revolver in her black-gloved hand. Standing beside her were two remaining mercenaries, their weapons trained directly on Maya’s chest.
"You really are a persistent little insect, aren't you, Miss Lin?" Eleanor said, her voice easily cutting through the sound of the wind. "An archivist. A nobody who earned forty thousand dollars a year. And yet, here you are, ruining thirty years of research."
