Chapter 2 - Lockdown Protocol
The terminal screen blinked violently, transitioning from the pharmacy network database to a dark, solid crimson screen overlaid with bold white text: FACILITY THREAT DETECTED. AUTOMATED LEVEL-4 LOCKDOWN IN EFFECT.
I lunged for the main dispatcher console behind the desk, slamming my palm down on the manual override toggle. Nothing happened. The circuit was dead. The primary communications line gave off a high-pitched, warbling squeal before cutting out completely. The radio on my shoulder emitted a burst of harsh static, then fell silent.
“Stay close to me,” I told Emma, sweeping my arm around both her and Olivia.
Olivia was shivering violently now, her skin slick with cold sweat. Her lips had taken on a faint bluish tint. Whatever Marcus Vance had administered via that syringe was working fast, disrupting her metabolism or nervous system.
The lights overhead flickered three times in rapid succession before blacking out entirely. Auxiliary emergency lighting kicked in two seconds later, bathing the lobby in an eerie, amber glow. Outside, the rain continued to hammer against the bullet-resistant windows, but the storm now felt distant, cut off by inches of reinforced glass and double-bolted steel.
I checked the station’s perimeter monitoring console. The third-floor precinct wasn't a mega-building, but as a regional precinct, it had been retrofitted two years prior with an integrated digital facility control system—a system designed to contain active shooter situations or hazardous leaks.
Marcus Vance hadn't just tracked his daughters here. He had hijacked the entire precinct's network infrastructure from the outside.
Suddenly, the lobby intercom speaker crackled to life with low, rhythmic static.
“Officer,” a voice echoed from the wall-mounted speakers. The tone was unnervingly measured, void of anger or panic. “I know you have my daughters. I also know you logged syringe batch number 884-Delta into the regional registry six minutes ago.”
Emma shrank behind my legs, her small hands clutching the back of my tactical vest.
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“Marcus Vance,” I said loudly toward the nearest ceiling mic, keeping my voice firm and grounded. “Your daughter Olivia is suffering an acute medical crisis. An ambulance is on its way. Stand down and disarm whatever override you’ve placed on this building.”
A soft, dark laugh resonated through the speaker. “An ambulance won't reach this block, Officer. The traffic grids for four surrounding intersections were locked in red-phase management eight minutes ago. Nobody is coming in. Nobody is coming out. And if you attempt to force open those pneumatic doors without the counter-agent sequence, the system will purge the central atmospheric line.”
