“What’s going on, Doctor?” Patrick asked when the obstetrician had finished his exam.

“It’s time to act. The baby’s pulse rate is high now and his blood oxygen level is low, and it looks like his head is banging right up against the cervix-but she’s still dilated only five centimeters. I’m afraid we don’t have any choice-we need to do a cesarean.”

“We talked about that already,” Patrick said angrily. “Wendy can’t do a cesarean, because of her injuries…”

“We don’t have any choice in the matter, Mr McLanahan,” the doctor said. “You’re going to lose the baby if this keeps up. We can’t increase the oxytocin any further. We’re coming up on twenty-four hours since her water broke, so the chance of infection is climbing. Any more delay, and we could lose both of them.”

“Then…”-Patrick couldn’t believe he was going to say this, but he had to-“… if the surgery is too risky, we should… we have to abort the delivery.”

“I’ve been speaking to Dr Linus since you gave me permission to get details on Wendy’s injuries,” the obstetrician said. “I think she’s strong enough to handle a cesarean. Dr Linus and I disagree…”

“Then we should go with Dr Linus’s recommendation.”

“I’m the attending physician now, and I’m here and he’s not,” the obstetrician said firmly. “And I’m the one responsible. I don’t know the extent of her injuries, but I don’t think Dr Linus does either-apparently you’ve been playing this secrecy game with him too.” Patrick averted his eyes. It was obvious that he felt the awful pain of having to choose between maintaining some government secret and the health and well-being of his family, and was now discovering that he might have made the wrong choice. Sometimes, the obstetrician thought, these guys play the loyal little tin soldier routine too seriously, forgetting that there are real lives at stake.

“Frankly speaking,” the doctor went on, “you two took an awful risk by continuing this pregnancy, with the horrendous medical history Wendy has. The chances of mother and baby coming out of this pregnancy in good health were never better than fifty-fifty. You should have been advised of that…”

“We were,” Patrick admitted. “But it was a miracle Wendy got pregnant at all, so we decided to go ahead with it.”

The doctor gave Patrick a faint smile. “Well, sir, now we all have to live with the consequences of that decision. It’s a tribute to her that she stayed in such good health through this pregnancy, and that is a definite plus in her favor-but we’re in trouble now. The worst has come true. You need to make a decision, Patrick.”

“All right,” Patrick said, reaching over and taking Wendy’s hand. She stirred but did not return his gentle squeeze. “What are my options?”

“The only way for us to ensure that we’ll deliver a healthy baby at this point is to do a cesarean right now,” the obstetrician said. “The only way to ensure Wendy’s health is to terminate the pregnancy. We can wait and hope that Wendy dilates to ten, but we risk injury or death to your baby because his head is pounding against her cervix and he’s showing obvious signs of distress, and we also risk the chance of infection for both mother and baby. We can go ahead with a C-section and risk Wendy’s health, although I’m fairly confident that she can come out of it all right. Or we terminate the pregnancy to save Wendy. That’s about it.”

Patrick looked at his wife, but she was out of it. You have got to help me on this one, sweetie, he told her silently. I can’t make this decision on my own.

As if in reply, she opened her eyes and managed a weak smile. She swallowed, took a ragged breath, and said in a low voice, “You are going to make a great father, lover.”

“Wendy, listen to me. I have to ask you-the baby’s in trouble, you’re in trouble. I think we need to… to abort it, sweetheart.”

Wendy’s expression never changed but she raised her chin confidently. “You won’t do that, Patrick,” she said.

“I can’t risk your life, Wendy…”

“I’ve had my life already, Patrick,” Wendy said. “You’d be denying a new life. You won’t do that.”

“But we have other options, Wendy,” Patrick said, pleading with her. “We can adopt. I can’t risk losing you…”

“Patrick, sweetheart, we have a life right here, right now, that we must decide about,” Wendy said. “There are no other options. It’s us three right now. You know what you have to do.”

Wendy’s smile never dimmed as Patrick’s eyes filled with tears. He reached down, kissed her on the forehead, pressed her hand, and nodded. She nodded in reply and closed her eyes as another wave of contractions, more painful than the last even through the epidural, washed over her.

Patrick turned to the obstetrician and said, “Cesarean.”

“All right, let’s go,” the doctor said. Nurses came in to get Wendy ready to move to the pre-op area.

“I want to be there,” Patrick said emphatically. “I want to be with Wendy. I’m not leaving her side.”

“You’ll be there,” the doctor said. Patrick was handed a package with a thin plastic surgical gown, cap, and shoe covers. “Put those on. We’ll have you wait outside the pre-op area until she’s been taken into surgery, and then we’ll bring you in. Don’t worry.”

The speed at which the nurses and doctor were working told Patrick that the greatest battle of their lives was just beginning.

LaFortier drove past the main entrance to Sacramento Live!, then parked the car across the street half a block down. LaFortier put the car in park but did not shut off the engine. He sat thinking. “Why don’t we just give the guy a call on the radio and have him let us in?” Paul McLanahan asked.

“It’s dark inside,” LaFortier said.

“They had a power failure, Cargo.”

“But the battery-powered emergency lights are off too,” LaFortier pointed out. “One or two lights out, I can understand-but all of the emergency lights malfunctioning at the same time?…”

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that Rusty’s probably pretty pissed off right now,” LaFortier said. He picked up the radio. “Security One-Seven, One John Twenty-One.” No reply. LaFortier tried again; still no reply. “I’ll get Dispatch to beep him. He might be in the can or something.” LaFortier swung the Mobile Data Terminal toward him and typed, 1JN21 TO POP3 REQ PLZ BEEP SECURITY 17, a request to activate the beeper on the off-duty officer’s radio, a loud tone signaling the officer to check in right away.

“Should we get some backup?” McLanahan asked.

“Not just yet-let’s see if Rusty checks in,” LaFortier replied. He put the car in drive and rolled farther down the block, out of sight of the front of the building.

“Er bewegt sich in nцrdlicher Richtung auf der Seventh Street,” the lookout reported. A gunman, fully outfitted with body armor, helmet, and several heavy automatic weapons, was stationed at each entrance, monitoring the outside with night-vision goggles.

“Verstanden,” said the one in the staircase. Three others were taking cover in the staircase, hidden behind the half-open door. Still another was just dragging the body of the off-duty police officer away from the security desk, out of sight of the cash room located just opposite the security desk. The gunport in the door of the cash room was still closed-apparently the men inside hadn’t heard the commotion outside yet.

“What is the procedure when they open the door, Mullins?” one of the gunmen asked in heavily accented English.

“They’ll call out first on the phone, Major,” said a man in a security guard’s outfit. “Then they’ll look out the gunport. The security chief is supposed to stand in plain sight before the door is opened. Then they’ll…” Just then, a loud beeping sound came from the security desk.

“Is that the call?” asked the gunman identified as the Major, obviously the leader of the group. He was clad in thick Class Three bulletproof Kevlar armor protecting every part of his body except his head; his ballistic Kevlar infantry helmet, which had an integral communications headset, red-lens protective goggles, and a gas mask, was in his hand. His combat harness was arrayed with ammo pouches, grenades, and a large-caliber automatic pistol in a combat thigh rig. He scared the hell out of the security guard.