Chapter 12
The skid of the helicopter struck the gravel-strewn roof of an abandoned iron foundry with a bone-jarring crash that rattled every tooth in Brooke's skull. The aircraft bounced twice before the pilot slammed the emergency brakes, killing the turbine engines as smoke began to billow from the rear exhaust housing.
"Get out! Move, move, move!" the pilot yelled, kicking open the side cargo door as freezing rain whipped sideways into the cabin.
Brooke didn't hesitate. Unbuckling herself, she unclipped Luna’s carrier first, thrusting it into the co-pilot's arms, then grabbed Leo’s carrier with both hands. The icy wind tore at her hair, nearly sweeping her off her feet as she scrambled onto the wet, slick roofing tiles. The pursuing helicopter roared overhead, its searchlight sweeping across the foundry roof in a wide, blinding arc, missing them by mere yards as it overshot the target in the blinding squall.
"In here! Through the maintenance hatch!" the co-pilot shouted, pointing toward a rusted stairwell enclosure protruding from the center of the roof.
They plunged into the stairwell just as a barrage of heavy-caliber machine-gun fire chewed through the corrugated metal roof tiles above them, showering the concrete steps with razor-sharp shrapnel. Brooke threw her body over the dual infant carriers, using her own back as a shield against falling debris. Her pale blush satin hospital robe was instantly soaked through with freezing water and grime, but she didn't feel the cold. She felt only the primal, burning drive to keep her children breathing.
"Down! Down to the casting floor!" Brooke ordered, her voice echoing down the stairwell as she hoisted Leo’s carrier back into her arms.
The interior of the abandoned iron foundry was a cathedral of rust, rotting timber, and cavernous shadows. Massive, silent blast furnaces loomed like ancient monoliths in the dark, their rusted catwalks stretching out over pits of stagnant rainwater. The air smelled of sulfur, iron dust, and wet concrete.
"Set them down behind the primary slag hopper," Brooke instructed the co-pilot, her eyes scanning the perimeter as she unholstered a small, suppressed Sig Sauer she had taken from Marcus’s safehouse before they evacuated. Her hands were steady. The military-grade firearms training her father had insisted upon since her eighteenth birthday was no longer a theoretical exercise.
"Ms. Vance, we’re trapped," the co-pilot whispered, pressing his back against the rusted steel plating of the hopper. "They know we landed. Their thermal imaging will pick up our body heat the second they sweep the roof hatches."
"They won't use thermal if we blind them first," Brooke said coldly, her gaze fixed on the overhead catwalks. "Listen to me. Take the children and head toward the municipal drainage pipe at the far end of the property. It leads straight to the storm sewers. It's three miles to the safehouse."
"What about you?" the co-pilot asked, staring at her in disbelief. "You can't stay here alone!"
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"I'm going to draw them away," Brooke stated, her voice brooking zero argument. "Garrett thinks I'm a helpless socialite who hides behind her father. I'm going to remind him who taught my father everything he knows."
Before the co-pilot could argue, the heavy iron maintenance door at the top of the central gantry shrieked open. Heavy tactical boots crunched onto the metal catwalks above them. The hunt had begun.
