The high-pitched whine of the electric cast saw sliced through the heavy silence of Trauma Room 2. White fiberglass dust exploded into the air like fine snowfall, settling onto the dark blue linoleum floor.

I shrank back against the wall of the scrub room, my breath shallow and icy. The heavy leather strap sat heavy in my deep pocket like a unexploded grenade.

"Clear Room 1!" a deep voice shouted outside. The sound of heavy boots against polished floor tile echoed closer. "Nothing here! Move to Room 2!"

If they entered OR 4 while Chris was in the middle of amputating Emily’s arm, they would execute everyone inside to cover their tracks. I couldn't let them reach that door.

I looked around the small scrub room. On the counter sat three large bottles of 90% isopropyl alcohol used for emergency sterilization, alongside a box of lithium battery packs for portable headlights.

My mind raced. Eight years in emergency medicine had taught me one fundamental rule: when a patient is hemorrhaging, you don't wait for ideal conditions—you create them.

I grabbed two bottles of alcohol, uncapped them, and dumped the liquid across the scrub room floor, letting it pool beneath the double doors. I picked up a sterile scalpel, slashed open a high-capacity lithium battery pack, and jammed the exposed copper contacts against the metal frame of the door hinge.

A shower of bright blue sparks erupted.

The alcohol vapor ignited instantly. A wall of blue flame erupted across the threshold, blinding and scorching through the glass window.

"Fire! What the hell?!" a voice shrieked from the hallway. "The scrub room is on fire!"

"Shoot the glass!" Daniel screamed.

BANG! BANG!

Bullets shattered the reinforced glass of the scrub room door, sending sharp shards raining onto the burning floor. I threw myself behind the heavy stainless-steel sink station, shielding my head as drywall dust blew out from the impacts.

"Move back! The fire doors are dropping!" one of the gunmen yelled.

The automatic hospital safety system triggered. Heavy, fire-proof steel shutters began sliding down from the ceiling with a deafening mechanical screech, sealing off the surgical wing from the main hallway.

Through the narrow gap of the descending shutter, I saw Daniel’s face. He looked through the flames, his eyes lock onto me as I crouched behind the sink.

"You think you're a hero, Doctor?!" Daniel roared over the noise of the flames and alarm bells. "You have no idea what you're holding! You just signed your own death warrant!"

The heavy steel shutter slammed shut against the floor with a loud, metallic THUD, sealing us in total darkness.

The fire on the floor flickered out as the automated halogen gas fire-suppression system hissed from the ceiling, consuming the oxygen in the threshold. I coughed violently, pulling my N95 mask back over my mouth, and stumbled backward into OR 4.

"Sarah!" Chris yelled, his headlamp shining through the smoke. "What happened out there?!"

"We're locked in," I wheezed, leaning against the operating table. "The fire shutters dropped. We have twenty minutes before emergency backup power fails completely."

I looked down at Emily. Her chest was rising and falling steadily under the rhythm of the ventilator. Her blood pressure monitor read 90 over 60—low, but stable. The blackened, infected limb was gone, replaced by a clean, heavily bandaged surgical stump secured with vascular clamps.

"She survived the surgery," Chris breathed, wiping his face with his sleeve. "Now we just have to survive the night."

I pulled the plastic specimen bag out of my coat pocket, peeling back the charred leather of the restraint. Tucked inside a waterproof rubber casing was a small, military-grade encrypted flash drive, stained with Emily’s dried blood.