He fired two precise shots at the intruder, forcing him to retreat further into the kitchen. More agents poured in from outside, surrounding the remaining attacker, who finally dropped his weapon in surrender. Jonathan didn't wait to see him taken into custody. He raced back toward his office and the panic room where Malik was hiding. As he approached, he heard a small strangled cry from inside.
"Malik," he called urgently. "Are you okay?" There was no response. With growing dread, Jonathan entered the code to unlock the panic room door. As it swung open, his worst fears were confirmed.
The room was empty, save for Malik's phone lying on the floor. And on the wall, written in what looked like red marker was a message. The boy for the files. You have 4 hours instructions to follow. Jonathan stared at the message, unable to process for a moment how this could have happened.
The panic room was supposed to be impenetrable from the outside, unless they didn't break in, he realized aloud. They were already inside. The listening devices found yesterday hadn't been the only breach of their home. Somehow, folks, people had gained access to the panic room itself, learning its location and override codes. Ramirez arrived 20 minutes later to find a house in chaos.
Agents securing the perimeter, forensic teams processing evidence, and Jonathan Carter, usually the calmst person in any crisis, pacing his office like a caged animal. "How did they get him?" She demanded without preamble. "Hidden entrance to the panic room through the basement," Jonathan replied tursly. "Maintenance tunnel that wasn't on the original house plans.
They've been planning this for months. How did they get past the security team?" Distraction, Jonathan said. The sniper, the front assault, it was all to draw our attention while someone already inside the house took Malik. Ramirez surveyed the damage.
We'll get him back, she promised. Yes, we will, Jonathan agreed, his voice cold with determination. But not their way. I'm not waiting for their instructions. What do you mean?
Jonathan retrieved his laptop, opening a secure program. Every agent has a tracking chip embedded in their gear. My son's watch, the one I gave him last Christmas, has one, too. I didn't tell him. I didn't tell anyone.
You put a tracker on your own son? Ramirez asked, surprised. Precaution? Jonathan replied without apology. And now it might save his life.
The program completed its search, displaying a blinking dot on a map. He's moving, Jonathan observed. Heading east on the highway. They haven't found the tracker yet. I'll mobilize a tactical team, Ramirez said, reaching for her phone.
No, Jonathan stopped her. Too many people, too much chance of Vulk spotting the operation. This needs to be small and precise. You can't go in alone, Ramirez argued. Not alone, Jonathan agreed.