Page 67 of Anchor
The words landed heavy, but Reid didn’t blink. “Claire’s awake. Foggy, but fighting. Pain remains high. But she’s not going to disappear just because her mother wishes it.”
Ian’s hand pressed flat to the desk, steadying the room like he could anchor the storm. “Which is exactly why we move her. She’s not protected enough in Med. Tonight, if Foley okays it, she goes up to the executive penthouse. One entrance. Controlled access. My clearance only.”
Reid leaned forward, voice sharp. “Tree Town One?”
“Full armory status,” Ian said. “She doesn’t breathe without Chase eyes. And, Reid, she doesn’t leave the building. Not until we know who fired that rifle.”
“Right now, Med is trying to get her out of bed.” Reid sighed.
A long silence followed, the kind that tasted like truth no one wanted but everyone had to carry. Then Ian added, “I’ve already drafted a statement. Tate Webster will release it for the six-thirty national news. We don’t trail Heather; we stay ahead of her. We put our version out first, controlled, disciplined, and undeniable. And if it antagonizes the shooter? Good. Let them react. Because once Claire’s moved upstairs, they won’t reach her.”
Reid gave a sharp nod. “Done.”
The quiet lasted just a breath more until Fuse’s voice snapped across the executive suite intercom, brittle and urgent. “Red alert. Executive elevator shaft. Heat signature detected. No ID. No badge swipe. Something’s in there.”
Reid was already on his feet, chair scraping back. Zach followed.
Ian’s reply was instant, cutting through the charge in the air, “Move.”
The fragile quiet shattered.
EXECUTIVE ELEVATOR SHAFT – 1231 HOURS
The elevator doors parted with a groan. It was empty—no movement or noise. But something was wrong. Reid’s eyes narrowed. Above him, one ceiling panel hung slightly askew.
He saw it. Nestled in the shadows sat a black device the size of a shoebox, matte casing, wires visible in a tight coil.
“I’ve got something,” Reid snapped into his comm. “Black box. Upper panel. Could be ordnance.”
He holstered his sidearm and launched upward, fingers finding the narrow grip bar. He swung one leg up and braced against the inner frame, dragging himself into the narrow crawl space above the elevator cab.
There it was. A bomb. Smart casing. Old-school trigger design. It had a digital core but manual fuse, wrapped in insulated rigging. His eyes locked on the countdown.
00:59.
“It’s live,” Reid said, breath sharp. “One minute on the clock.”
“Evacuating executive suites,” Zach called.
“Evacuating main branch now,” Fuse responded. “Medical building lockdown in progress. Tree Town One mobilizing. I’m sweeping heat trails. Bravo Team clearing floors, Crescent One mobilizing to assist.”
Reid didn’t answer. His focus was on the wires. Red. Blue. Yellow. Silver. The old combinations echoed in muscle memory. This wasn’t military-issue. This was a custom build—off-book. Real materials, dirty logic and built for confusion.
00:45.
He opened the casing gently. It was pressure-sensitive. That ruled out yanking it. He traced the trigger line. It pulsed faintly with energy, maybe a mercury switch inside. If jostled wrong, it would trip a secondary fail-safe.
00:34.
“Reid, update,” Ian’s voice came in, rougher now.
“Not stable. Dual-core, analog fail-safe. Trying to bypass the capacitor now.”
Reid’s hand slid inside his pocket, fingers finding his Leatherman multi-purpose tool. He found the capacitor cluster. It was a neat row of metal prongs near the rear. The timing wire snaked beneath it. He pressed the blade between the prongs and held.
00:22.
“I’ve got unknown trace on sublevel three,” Fuse barked. “Heading west. Fast.”
