Chapter 5 - The Hospital Breach
I tore through the streets of Phoenix, sirens wailing in the distance as emergency vehicles converged on Desert Banner Hospital. The morning sun was just beginning to peek over the distant Superstition Mountains, painting the sky in streaks of fiery orange and deep crimson.
When I pulled up to the hospital entrance, the scene was chaotic. Fire trucks blocked the main driveway, their red lights flashing against the glass facade of the building. Patients in yellow gowns were being guided out by nurses, while firemen rushed inside with heavy hoses.
I ignored the perimeter tape, flashing my emergency dispatch credentials at a bewildered security guard, and slipped through the sliding glass doors into the main lobby.
The main lobby was filled with smoke from a smoke bomb set off in the HVAC vents—a classic tactical maneuver designed to cause panic and blind surveillance cameras.
I bypassed the crowded elevators and ran straight for the emergency stairwell, taking the stairs three at a time up to the third-floor pediatric unit. My lungs burned, but the image of seven-year-old Sophie sitting alone with her stuffed rabbit pushed me forward.
When I burst through the heavy stairwell door onto the third floor, my worst fears were confirmed.
The hallway was filled with swirling white smoke. Near the entrance to Sophie’s room, two federal agents were lying motionless on the linoleum floor. They weren't dead—their chests were rising and falling slowly—but they had been knocked out with a fast-acting stun gas.
The door to Sophie’s room was wide open.
“Sophie!” I shouted, pulling my sweater up over my nose to filter the acrid smoke.
I rushed into the room. The bed was empty. The heart monitor was emitting a flat, continuous beep where the leads had been yanked from her chest.
On the floor beside the bed lay Bunny, the faded blue stuffed rabbit, its ears crushed beneath a dirty boot print.
My heart shattered. “No, no, no!”
I grabbed the stuffed toy and looked around frantically. The window overlooking the rear parking garage was unlocked and swinging slightly in the morning breeze. Victor Vance had taken her through the secondary service exit before the fire department even reached the scene.
Suddenly, a faint scraping sound came from the small closet in the corner of the room.
I froze, pulling a heavy brass desk lamp off the nightstand to use as a weapon. “Who’s in there?” I called out sharply.
The door creaked open slowly.
It wasn't the killer. It was Officer Mark Vance, blood streaming down the side of his forehead from a deep cut, gasping for air as he leaned against the closet frame.
“Linda...” Vance gasped, holding his head. “He... he was wearing a firefighter uniform. He ambushed us from behind... took the girl...”
“Where did he go, Mark?” I pleaded, kneeling beside him to help him sit up. “Which way?”
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“Service elevator... down to the subterranean loading dock,” Vance wheezed. “He’s got a utility van... white, unmarked... license plate ends in 4-8-9...”
I didn't wait for the backup officers to arrive. I grabbed Vance’s radio off his belt, clipped it to my jacket, and sprinted back into the stairwell, descending toward the underground levels of the hospital complex.
