Chapter 3 - Saint Matthew’s SecretThe storm was a blessing. Thunder rolled across the jagged cliffs overlooking the Atlantic, drowning out the sound of Marcus’s matte-black SUV rolling to a halt on the access road.
Adrian stepped out into the torrential rain, dressed in midnight-black tactical gear. He checked the magazine of his suppressed Heckler & Koch USP45, slamming it home with a satisfying click. Marcus stood beside him, holding a high-tech tablet displaying the thermal blueprint of the facility.
"Security is tight," Marcus murmured over the comms earpiece. "Cameras every twenty feet, thermal sensors on the perimeter fence, and armed patrols. This isn't a rehab center, Adrian. It's a black site."
"They're guarding my brother," Adrian said, his eyes fixed on the imposing stone structure. "Cut the juice."
Marcus tapped the screen. A mile away, a localized EMP charge they had rigged to the main power grid detonated. Instantly, the sprawling complex of Saint Matthew's plunged into total darkness. The backup generators wouldn't kick in for exactly forty-five seconds.
"Go!" Marcus barked.
Adrian sprinted. He was a shadow moving through the pouring rain, vaulting the ten-foot perimeter fence with the grace of a panther. He landed silently on the manicured grass just as the red emergency lights flickered to life.
He pressed himself against the damp stone wall of the east wing. A guard stepped out of the side door, clicking a heavy Maglite flashlight, muttering about the storm. Before the guard could raise his radio, Adrian lunged. One hand clamped over the man's mouth, the other applied precise pressure to the carotid artery. Ten seconds later, the guard slumped unconscious into the bushes.
Adrian swiped the guard's keycard and slipped inside.
The interior smelled of clinical bleach and expensive leather. Adrian moved with lethal efficiency through the corridors, avoiding the main rotunda where the security team was scrambling to restore full power. Leo had said the basement. Room 4B.
Adrian found the service stairwell. He descended into the bowels of the building. The air grew colder here, damp and oppressive. This wasn't the luxury rehab upstairs; this was a dungeon built with modern money.
At the bottom of the stairs, a heavy steel door barred the way, flanked by two guards in tactical gear. These weren't rent-a-cops; they were mercenaries.
Adrian didn't hesitate. He stepped out of the shadows, raising his weapon. Pfft. Pfft. Two suppressed rounds shattered the kneecaps of the guards. As they fell, crying out in shock, Adrian closed the distance, striking them with the butt of his pistol, rendering them unconscious before they could draw their weapons.
He grabbed the master security fob from one of the men and swiped it against the steel door. It hissed open.
A long, sterile corridor stretched before him, lined with solid metal doors.
1B. 2B. 3B.
Adrian’s breath grew shallow. He stopped in front of 4B. His hands, which hadn't shaken when taking down armed mercenaries, were now trembling. He swiped the card. The heavy bolts clicked, and the door swung open.
The room was stark white, illuminated by a harsh fluorescent bulb. In the center was a hospital bed. Strapped to it, hooked up to an IV drip, was a man.
He was dangerously thin, his face covered in a ragged beard, his skin pallid from years without sunlight. Burn scars traced the left side of his neck and jaw—the permanent signature of the car crash. But as the door opened, the man’s head snapped up.
Despite the hollow cheeks and the exhaustion, the piercing gray eyes were exactly as Adrian remembered them.
"Scott," Adrian choked out, the weapon lowering in his hand.
May you like
Scott stared at him, a slow, crooked smile breaking through the trauma. His voice was raspy, ruined by disuse.
"I told you," Scott rasped, coughing weakly. "You're always late... little brother."
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