Chapter 3

The team' s fury erupted instantly, all directed at Matthew and Molly.

"You son of a bitch!" Davis roared, lunging at Matthew. "You killed us! You killed us all for her!"

Our mechanic, a quiet man named Frank, had to physically restrain him. Maria, the electrician, was just staring at Molly with pure, undiluted hatred.

Molly shrank behind Matthew, her eyes wide with fear. "It' s not my fault! The building shook!"

I stepped between them, my expression one of deep regret. "Stop it! This is my fault. I supported the decision. I thought we had more time."

My feigned guilt momentarily defused the situation. They still trusted me. They still believed I was the pragmatic leader who had simply made a fatal miscalculation.

"It' s over," Maria whispered, her voice hollow. "They' re coming."

"No, it' s not," I said, my tone shifting to one of command. "I know a place. A reinforced underground parking garage, three blocks from here. It has its own power and water filtration. We can hold out there."

It wasn' t a suggestion; it was an order. Hope, however slim, was a powerful motivator. They looked at me, their desperation clinging to my words. I led them down a service ladder on the far side of the roof, away from the main stairwell now echoing with Shaker screams.

We made it to the garage, a brutal, terrifying sprint through debris-choked streets. Once inside, Frank and I sealed the heavy steel gate. We were safe, for now.

The team collapsed, breathing heavily. The blame started to bubble up again.

That' s when I played my ace.

I walked over to a dusty emergency comms panel in the security office. "Everyone, listen up."

They turned to me.

"There' s something I never told you. Before the quake, I wasn' t just a FEMA geologist. I was a senior strategist, Level Four clearance. I was in charge of deep-earth comms projects." I plugged my personal data slate into the panel, and a secure, encrypted channel flickered to life.

"This is Dr. Gabrielle Clarkson, FEMA ID 77-Alpha-Kilo. I am invoking Priority Directive 7. I have a team of essential personnel at grid reference 34.0522° N, 118.2437° W. We require immediate special extraction."

A calm, synthesized voice responded instantly. "Priority Directive 7 acknowledged, Dr. Clarkson. A Black Hawk special operations team will be dispatched to your location. ETA: 72 hours. Please confirm team manifest."

I looked at my team. Their faces were a canvas of pure shock and dawning relief. Matthew looked at me with awe.

I smiled. "Rescue is coming."