Trauma Bay 1 was instantly transformed into a pressure cooker of high-stakes medical adrenaline. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, reflecting off stainless steel surfaces as the gurney was locked into place.

Silence hung heavily over the radio frequency for three long seconds.

Then, a harsh, cruel laugh rasped through the speaker. "A nurse? You think a retired pilot with a broken body can stop eight heavily armed contractors? You are out of your depth, Warrant Officer. Flank the sub-basement stairs! Burn them out!"

Upstairs in the primary lobby, six remaining mercenaries shifted their formation, abandoning the elevator shafts and charging down the central concrete fire stairwell leading directly into the sub-basement.

They moved in a tight tactical stack, shields up, weapons raised, throwing smoke grenades down the stairwell to obscure vision.

Thick gray smoke poured into the lower landing.

Inside the bunker, Dr. Raymond Holt was sitting on a wooden crate near Maya's bed, holding a surgical scalpel in his trembling hand, his face slick with cold sweat. Priya stood beside him, holding a bag of saline, her eyes wide with terror.

"They're coming down the stairs!" Holt whimpered, his voice stripped of every ounce of his former bravado. "Mercer... Clare... what do we do?! We're trapped!"

Clare walked to the heavy steel blast door of the bunker. She picked up a broad-spectrum medical oxygen tank—a heavy, thirty-pound steel cylinder—and set it precisely in the center of the narrow concrete hallway, twenty feet from the stairwell door.

She pulled a high-powered flare gun from the mercenary’s captured tactical belt.

"Doctor Holt," Clare said, without looking back at him. "Get behind that concrete pillar and cover your ears."

"What are you—"

"DO IT!" she ordered.

Holt and Priya dove behind the heavy concrete pillar, pulling their arms over their heads.

The heavy fire door at the end of the hall burst open! Three mercenaries surged through the thick smoke, their submachine guns raised, firing bursts of 9mm rounds into the darkness—TAK-TAK-TAK-TAK!

Sparks flew off the concrete walls!

Clare waited... one second... two seconds... until all three mercenaries were clustered in the narrow hallway directly beside the oxygen tank.

She stepped out from behind her wall, raised the flare gun, and pulled the trigger!

The magnesium flare tore through the air, striking the brass pressure valve of the oxygen cylinder!

BOOM!

A blinding, roaring shockwave of blue and orange fire erupted through the narrow hallway! The sudden pressure wave blew the heavy smoke backward, sending all three mercenaries flying off their feet, crashing hard against the concrete walls, their weapons flying from their hands, their tactical gear scorched and smoking!

Before the remaining three mercenaries in the stairwell could recover from the deafening blast, Havoc charged through the fire!

The Belgian Malinois was a whirlwind of black and brown fur, lunging through the dissipating smoke, taking down the fourth mercenary with a crushing bite to the thigh, dragging him to the floor.

Clare surged forward right behind him, wielding a captured tactical baton. She disarmed the fifth man with a swift strike to the wrist, spun on her heel, and drove her elbow directly into his solar plexus, dropping him instantly to his knees.

The team leader—a tall, scarred mercenary with a cold, dead stare—stepped out of the stairwell, raising his heavy sidearm directly at Clare’s chest!

"Die, bitch!" he snarled!

BANG!

A gunshot echoed through the hall!

The mercenary leader froze. A round hit his right shoulder, spinning him around, sending his gun clattering to the floor.

Clare blinked, looking back toward the end of the corridor.

Standing in the doorway, holding a heavy 9mm sidearm retrieved from an unconscious guard, his hands shaking violently but his stance locked firm, was Dr. Raymond Holt.

Holt’s face was pale, his teeth gritted, smoke curling from the barrel of his gun.

"I told you..." Holt panted, his gravelly voice shaking with a mixture of terror and sudden, fierce defiance. "Nurses... don't... take... orders... from... trash like you!"

Clare looked at Holt. A small, genuine, dangerous smile curved her lips.

"Nice shot, Doctor," Clare said softly.

"He was violating surgical protocol," Holt gasped, lowering the gun slowly.

Clare stepped up to the wounded mercenary leader, kicking his weapon far out of reach, then brought her boot down firmly onto his collarbone, pinning him to the floor. She knelt down, grabbing his tactical vest, pulling his face inches from hers.

"Who hired you?" Clare whispered, her voice colder than the ice storm outside. "Give me the operational node."

The mercenary spat blood onto the concrete, grinning wickedly. "It doesn't matter... the contract is active. If we fail... the Syndicate sends the second wave. You can't protect her forever..."

Before Clare could reply, heavy footsteps echoed from the top of the stairwell!

Tactical boots, heavy gear, fast deployment.

Clare instantly raised her weapon, aiming toward the door, Havoc stepping beside her, his teeth bared, ready for the final stand.

"FRIENDLY! FRIENDLY ON THE STAIRS!" a roaring voice shouted down the hall!

A squad of ten heavily armed operators clad in black maritime assault gear, night-vision goggles stowed, bearing the silver trident insignias of SEAL Team Six, poured through the doors, clearing the angles with lightning precision!