Six years ago, a woman vanished without a trace—and a powerful man was left believing she had abandoned him.

While Matthew hunted through the flooded depths of North Point, sixty miles away in the heart of the city, a secondary nightmare was unfolding at the Sullivan Medical Annex atop Saint Jude’s tower.

Inside the private, high-security medical suite, Anne Miller lay connected to advanced life-support systems. Her vitals were slowly climbing back toward stability, her breathing steadying under the care of three private Sullivan physicians.

In the adjoining secure waiting lounge, little Sarah sat in a plush armchair, wrapped in a warm blanket, sipping hot chocolate. Stationed at every entrance were four elite Sullivan security guards armed with concealed sidearms and tactical earpieces.

Suddenly, the lights flickered.

The hospital’s internal alarm system sounded a low, warning pulse.

"Security team, this is Station 1," the lead guard spoke into his comms. "We have a power disruption on Floors 14 through 18. Elevators are grounded."

Before the team could respond, the heavy glass doors of the medical annex were blown inward by a controlled thermite charge.

BOOM!

The shockwave threw two guards across the room. Through the fire and shattered glass, four black-clad operatives burst into the suite, firing tactical stun darts and suppressed pistols.

"Secure the mother and the girl! Arthur wants no witnesses left alive!" shouted the strike leader.

The remaining Sullivan guards returned fire, engaging in a frantic, close-quarters gun battle amidst the overturned medical carts and shattered monitors.

Inside the waiting lounge, Sarah gasped, dropping her cup of chocolate. Terror threatened to paralyze her, just like the dark nights in the cellar. But then she looked down at the empty cardboard box sitting on the table.

She remembered Matthew’s words: You are the bravest girl in the world.

Sarah didn't cry. She scrambled beneath the heavy mahogany desk, pulling the thick leather chair in front of her as a barricade, clutching a sharp pair of stainless-steel surgical scissors she had spotted earlier on a tray.

The door to the lounge was kicked open. A heavily armed mercenary stepped in, scanning the room.

He spotted the blanket on the floor and stepped toward the desk.

"Come out, little girl," he sneered. "Mr. Pendelton has a very special trip planned for you."

As the mercenary reached his hand under the desk to grab her, Sarah lunged with all the strength in her five-year-old body, driving the point of the surgical scissors into the meat of his exposed wrist.

The mercenary roared in pain, stumbling backward, clutching his bleeding arm.

In that split second of distraction, the ceiling grate above the mercenary collapsed.

Dropping down from the ventilation shaft like an avenging angel was a Sullivan private contractor who had flanked from the maintenance level. With two devastating strikes, the contractor shattered the mercenary’s knee and drove a combat blade into his chest.

"Target down!" the contractor called out, sweeping the room. He knelt before the desk, offering a warm hand to Sarah. "Miss Sullivan. You're safe. Your mother is secured in the armored safe-room down the hall."

Sarah crawled out from beneath the desk, her chest heaving, her eyes fierce.