Chapter 7 - A Firefighter’s Pulse
Escorted out of the building into the pouring rain, Marcus walked straight to his car parked across the street. He didn't leave. He popped open his laptop, connected to his encrypted mobile hotspot, and tapped back into the hidden camera inside Room 412-C.
On the screen, two orderlies were already preparing Darius for transfer, disconnecting the heavy wall monitors and hooking him up to portable transport ventilators.
Darius was entirely on his own.
Inside his mind, Darius was fighting the battle of his life. The sound of Sterling’s voice had ignited a primal furnace inside him. Three years ago, he had charged through a blazing wall of fire to save two strangers. He had not survived a collapsed roof, three brain surgeries, and a thousand days of darkness just to let an arrogant sociopath murder him and traffic innocent women.
Move, Darius commanded his limbs. Move!
He focused all his willpower on his legs. He felt the dull, prickling sensation of waking nerve endings—a burning wave of pins and needles shooting down his quadriceps into his feet.
"Hey, check this out," one of the transport orderlies said, looking at the portable cardiac monitor. "His heart rate just jumped from sixty to one hundred and ten. Is he having a seizure?"
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"Relax, he’s a vegetable," the second orderly replied, securing the heavy nylon restraint straps across Darius’s chest. "His nervous system misfires all the time. Sterling wants him loaded into the private ambulance at the rear loading dock in twenty minutes. Let’s get him moving."
As they wheeled the gurney toward the door, Darius slightly curled the toes of his left foot. The numbness was receding. The fire was returning.
