Dr. Raymond Holt said it loud enough for the whole station to hear, the way he said most things, as if volume were a form of proof. Clare Mercer didn't flinch. She kept her eyes on the chart in front of her, pen steady, expression flat. Behind her, two other nurses traded a glance that had become a kind of shorthand between them over the last two months. Again.

The heavy wooden door of ICU Room 412 creaked under the pressure of a hydraulic breaching tool.

CRACK.

The lock shattered, and the door burst inward, slamming against the heavy crash cart Clare had wedged against the frame.

The lead mercenary shoved his suppressed MP5 rifle through the gap, aiming blindly into the dark room.

Before he could acquire a target, a streak of black and tan fur launched over the crash cart with terrifying velocity.

Odin cleared the barrier effortlessly, his eighty-pound frame slamming directly into the mercenary’s chest. The impact threw the man backward onto the slick linoleum floor. Odin’s jaws clamped onto the man's throat guard, crushing his airway before he could let out a single scream.

"Target active! Dog in the room!" the second mercenary shouted, raising his weapon.

Clare didn't hesitate. She stepped around the crash cart, holding a heavy glass bottle of surgical alcohol wrapped in flaming gauze—ignited with a utility lighter from the crash cart. She threw it with the practiced precision of a combat veteran.

The makeshift incendiary shattered against the second man’s chest rig. Flames exploded across his tactical vest, sending him thrashing backward down the corridor, screaming as the fire consumed his gear.

The third mercenary raised his rifle directly at Clare’s chest. "Die, bitch!"

BANG.

A single heavy gunshot echoed down the hallway—not from the mercenary’s weapon, but from the far end of the corridor near the stairwell entrance.

The third mercenary froze, a tiny red hole appearing in the center of his forehead. He collapsed like a sack of wet flour, his rifle clattering across the floor.

Clare ducked behind the door frame, her scalpel held ready, her eyes locked on the end of the hall.

Through the smoke and the flickering amber emergency lights, a massive figure stepped out of the stairwell shadow. He was over six-foot-four, built like a mountain of stone, dressed in a mud-splattered tactical jacket, holding a silenced SIG Sauer pistol in a firm two-handed grip. His face was weathered, carved from iron, with graying hair and eyes that blazed with an unholy, terrifying fury.

Odin let out a high-pitched, joyous whine, stepping off the neutralized mercenary and trotting toward the giant.

The man lowered his weapon, looked at the dog, and patted his head once. "Good boy, Odin."

Then he turned his gaze toward Clare.

Captain James Vance stepped into the light, his eyes falling upon Clare’s face, then shifting down to the pale scar on her hand and the subtle burn visible beneath her rolled-up scrub sleeve.