A 210-pound black belt choked a woman unconscious after she tapped, completely unaware her brother was Special Forces.

Cole didn't rush. Speed without discipline was suicide. He reached the fourth-floor landing, pressed his back against the cinderblock wall, and eased the fire door open a fraction of an inch.

The smell hit him first: the sterile, chemical aroma of hospital bleach mixed with the copper tang of fresh blood and the sharp sulfur of burnt propellant.

Lying ten feet from the door was one of Miller’s contractors—Bravo One. The man was face down in a widening pool of crimson, two neat entry wounds visible in the back of his tactical vest where the ceramic plate had failed to cover the lower spine. His sidearm was still half-drawn from its holster.

They had been ambushed before they could clear their holsters.

Cole swept his eyes down the corridor. The nursing station was empty—the nurses had either fled or were cowering beneath the counters. Thirty feet down the hallway, outside Room 412, two men dressed in black rain jackets and tactical pants were stacking up on either side of the doorway.

They were professionals. They moved with compact, economical motions, both carrying suppressed Czech Skorpion EVOs. A third man was stationed as a rear guard, facing down the corridor toward the main elevators, his weapon held at the ready.

A fourth man was inside the room.

Cole’s internal clock didn't tick in seconds; it ticked in fractions of an inch.

He slipped through the fire door, letting it swing shut on its pneumatic hinge without a sound. He had thirty feet of open hallway with zero cover. The rear guard was scanning left to right, his weapon tracking the intersection sixty degrees away from Cole.

Cole raised the MP7 to his cheek weld.

The red dot of the Aimpoint optic settled directly on the base of the rear guard’s skull.

Cole squeezed the trigger twice.

*Thwack-thwack.*

The suppressed 4.6mm rounds left the barrel at two thousand feet per second, entering the back of the guard’s neck before the sound of the bolt cycling could reach his ears. The man’s nervous system severed instantly. He dropped like an empty suit of clothes, hitting the floor without a groan.

The two men outside Room 412 reacted immediately. The man on the left began to pivot, his weapon swinging toward Cole.

Cole didn't wait for him to complete the arc. He advanced at a steady, driving walk, firing three-round bursts from the hip with machine-like regularity.

*Pfft-pfft-pfft.*

The first burst struck the left operator in the center of the chest. The rounds penetrated his soft vest, collapsing his sternum. The man gasped, his legs buckling, but Cole was already shifting his point of aim.

The second operator dove for the floor, rolling onto his side to clear the angle of the doorway, firing wildly as he fell. Three rounds ripped through the drywall inches from Cole’s head, plaster dust exploding in a white cloud.

Cole didn't flinch. He adjusted his stance, planted his lead foot, and drove two rounds into the man’s exposed throat as he completed the roll.

The corridor went deadly quiet, save for the frantic, rhythmic beeping of Maya’s heart monitor through the open door of Room 412.

Inside the room, the fourth man spoke. A low, Spanish-accented voice, completely steady, laced with cold amusement.