The monitors flickered violently, the digital maps dissolving into lines of raw code.

“What is happening?” I asked, standing up.

Isabella’s fingers flew across the keyboard, but the screens refused to respond.

“The signal is being jammed,” Isabella said, her voice tight with sudden panic.

“Not from the outside.”

“From inside this building.”

A heavy, metallic thud echoed from the corridor outside our steel door.

The electronic keypad on the wall flickered from green to a solid, pulsing red.

The digital lock hissed as it disengaged.

The heavy handle of the door began to turn.

I pushed myself in front of the cot where the triplets slept.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Isabella did not flinch; she reached into her jacket and pulled out a sleek, black semi-automatic pistol.

She leveled it at the door.

The heavy steel door swung open with a slow, grinding screech.

A tall man in a dark gray tactical vest stepped into the room.

His face was covered by a black balaclava, but I recognized the cold, pale blue eyes immediately.