Chapter 6 - INTO THE STORMThe bullet punched through the wooden molding an inch from Andrew’s ear as he scrambled up the spiral staircase, slamming the heavy steel hatch shut behind him and throwing the deadbolt just as heavy fists hammered against the metal from below.
The rooftop of the Sterling Tower was a howling vortex of wind, freezing rain, and blinding darkness. The city below was a distant grid of amber lights blurred by sheets of water, the wind screaming like a jet engine across the open concrete pad.
Parked in the center was the sleek, midnight-black fuselage of the Sikorsky S-76 executive helicopter, its rotor blades trembling violently against the gale.
"Get in the copilot's seat!" Andrew shouted over the deafening roar of the storm, his weight half-carrying Ethan across the wet tarmac.
They scrambled through the cabin door, slamming it shut and sealing out the freezing wind. The interior was pitch black save for the emerald glow of the avionics dashboard.
Ethan scrambled instantly into the left-hand pilot's seat, his small legs barely reaching the rudder pedals, his hands flying across the overhead switch panel with an eerie, mechanical confidence that defied every law of nature.
"Battery power on," Ethan muttered, his voice clipped and precise. "Avionics online. Turbine one ignition..."
The turbine let out a high-pitched whine that quickly deepened into a rhythmic, building roar as the massive overhead rotor blades began to churn the wet air, cutting through the storm with gathering fury.
"Ethan, are you sure about this?" Andrew yelled, strapping himself into the right-hand seat and grabbing the collective, his own hand ready to override if the boy's strength gave out.
"The building's security system is locked down," Ethan said, his dark eyes reflecting the green instrument panel as his fingers flicked the clearance toggles. "If we stay on the roof, Vance's extraction team will be up the freight stairs in ninety seconds. We fly north over Lake Michigan. There's an abandoned private airstrip in Waukegan that my file officer forgot to wipe from the regional aviation registry."
Andrew looked at the boy—really looked at him—and saw no trace of the terrified child who had crashed into his coat twenty minutes ago. Here, in the cockpit of a multi-million-dollar machine, surrounded by fire and lightning, sat something else entirely. Something the world wasn't ready for.
"Take us up, son," Andrew said.
Ethan pulled back gently on the collective.
The Sikorsky rose smoothly off the pad, hovering for a fraction of a second against the howling gale before banking sharply toward the dark, churning abyss of Lake Michigan, leaving the glowing towers of Chicago behind them.
But as they cleared the city limits, a red warning light suddenly flashed on the central navigation screen, accompanied by an automated, mechanical voice:
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Warning. Secondary tracking signal detected. Frequency match: BioGenix Central Grid.
Andrew stared at the screen. The signal wasn't coming from the city behind them. It was coming from inside the cabin. From Ethan’s own coat pocket.
