“Check your secondary terminal,” Arthur replied.“Vesper… what are you going to do?”
“They wanted to play with blood,” I said, disconnecting the call.“I’m going to give them a transfusion.”
By 7:30 PM, the steady thrum of twin-rotor blades shook the glass windows of St.Jude’s roof.
A midnight-black military-grade transport helicopter, unmarked and flying under federal priority clearance, touched down.
Six figures in sterile blue tactical scrubs moved with terrifying efficiency, securing Chloe’s life-support cradle and wheeling her into the pressurized cabin.
Dr.Miller stood on the roof, rain whipping his white coat against his frame, clutching his clipboard in utter disbelief as a colonel with surgical shears signed his release forms without uttering a word.
“She will receive hypothermic neural preservation within the hour,” the lead surgeon told me, adjusting the oxygen valves on Chloe’s transport pod.“Her core temperature is already dropping.
The child has a pulse.
