Her ribs felt cracked, a white-hot spear of agony radiating through her chest every time she tried to draw breath. Water from the spilled bucket soaked through the knees of her secondhand trousers, staining the pristine white marble of the foyer. Above them, the chandelier chimed softly as if mocking the sudden, violent quiet.

Clara whipped her head upward.

In the center of the reinforced ceiling, the heavy metal grille of the HVAC intake vent was bowing inward under immense pressure. Someone was using a hydraulic spreader from the outside ductwork, forcing the bolts through the plaster.

Crack.

A thick steel bolt snapped, flying across the room and embedding itself into the drywall inches from Clara’s head.

Noah stirred on the cot, letting out a faint, distressed whimper. His small hands twitched, clutching blindly at the air. He wasn't fully awake, but his body sensed the danger closing in around them.

Clara looked around the panic room in frantic desperation. There were no guns. There were no security systems she knew how to operate. There was only a heavy steel oxygen tank strapped to the wall rack, a first-aid kit, and a metal fire extinguisher.

Clang!

The second bolt gave way. The metal grille hung loosely by a single screw, swinging back and forth like a pendulum as a gloved hand reached through the opening, groping blindly for the locking latch on the wall.

Clara didn't hesitate. She grabbed the heavy steel oxygen tank, unstrapping it from the wall with a frantic yank. Her ribs flared with blinding agony, a white-hot flash of pain that almost brought her to her knees, but adrenaline pushed the pain aside.

She dragged the heavy tank toward the ceiling vent.

The gloved fingers found the latch and clicked it downward. The ventilation hatch dropped open entirely, and a man’s balaclava-clad head peered down into the vault, his dark tactical goggles reflecting the emergency red lights.

Clara raised the heavy oxygen tank high above her head and swung it downward with all the remaining strength in her body.

CRASH!

The bottom of the tank connected squarely with the intruder’s helmet. A sickening crunch echoed through the small room as the man’s head snapped backward against the metal duct. He let out a muffled groan, his grip slipping from the rim of the hatch, and he tumbled backward out of the vent, crashing heavily onto the library floor above.

Clara dropped the tank, collapsing against the wall, gasping for breath as her ribs throbbed violently. She was shaking from head to toe, her hands smeared with drywall dust and sweat.

She looked over at the monitor screen.

In the grand hallway, the gunfire had stopped.

Dominic stood amid a haze of cordite smoke and shattered plaster. Three of the operatives lay motionless on the floor. The fourth was pinned against the wall by his throat, Dominic’s hand clamped around his windpipe like a vise.

“Who sent you?” Dominic’s voice echoed through the hallway speakers, cold, steady, and dripping with lethal menace.

The operative struggled, clawing weakly at Dominic’s forearm, choking out a strangled laugh.

“You... you can’t kill us all, Vale,” the man gasped, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “The Board... they aren't just a syndicate. They own the judges. They own the governor. And the drive... it’s already being decrypted.”