Chapter 9 - The Race Against Time"Get the helicopter ready now!" Detective Miller roared into her radio as we sprinted out of the Financial District building into the chaotic New York traffic.
The flight from Manhattan to the upstate cabin took forty-five minutes—forty-five minutes of pure, unadulterated agony. I sat in the back of the military-grade chopper, wearing a tactical vest, staring out at the blurred green canopy of the forest below.
The weather had turned volatile; a heavy summer thunderstorm was rolling in, dark purple clouds dumping sheets of rain against the windshield, slowing our progress.
"We’ve lost contact with the two marshals at the cabin," the pilot called out over the headset. "Radio silence for the last five minutes."
"He's already there," I whispered, gripping my knees so hard my knuckles turned white. Please, God, let him be alive. Let my baby be okay.
When the helicopter finally cleared the tree line above the safehouse, the scene below was devastating. The primary transport vehicle was smashed into a tree, its windshield shattered. Both marshals were lying on the grass—unconscious but thankfully breathing, clearly taken out by a rapid-acting tactical sedative gas Ethan had access to from his pharmaceutical research.
The cabin doors were wide open, swaying in the violent wind.
The helicopter couldn't land safely in the narrow clearing amidst the storm, so the tactical team had to fast-rope down. I didn't wait for permission. The moment the rope hit the ground, I followed Detective Miller down, dropping into the mud and sprinting toward the house.
The living room was in shambles. The fireplace was cold, and Ryan’s drawing papers were scattered across the floor, soaked by the rain blowing through the broken windows.
From the master bedroom upstairs, a small, muffled cry echoed down.
"Mommy!"
"Ryan!" I screamed, breaking away from the tactical officers who were trying to form a defensive perimeter. I bounded up the wooden stairs, my heart in my throat, throwing open the bedroom door.
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Ethan stood by the window, holding a trembling Ryan in front of him. In his hand, he held a specialized medical air-injector—the kind used to deliver rapid doses of medication through the skin without a needle. He had it pressed against Ryan's neck.
"One step closer, Elena," Ethan said, his voice entirely calm, entirely dead, "and I press the trigger. This injector is loaded with pure potassium chloride. It will stop his heart in three seconds. Tell your friends with the guns to back down."
