“The life support system is running, but there is no infant inside,” Marcus said.

“The seals are cold. No one has been in this unit for hours.”

A heavy, suffocating silence followed over the radio.

I closed my eyes, tears hot against my cheeks.

Tessa had planned this from the very beginning.

I couldn’t sit in the dark anymore.

I looked back at the boys, who were still fast asleep, exhausted from the long hours of travel.

I locked the car doors from the outside using the key fob and ran into the pouring rain.

The cold water hit my face, shocking my skin.

I ran toward the side door of the hangar, the metal slippery under my sneakers.

The door was slightly ajar, the security lock hanging loose and sparking in the dark.

I slipped inside, my wet shoes squeaking loudly on the polished concrete floor.

The hangar was vast, smelling of aviation fuel, ozone, and damp metal.

In the center of the floor, under a single harsh halogen spotlight, stood a white medical transport capsule.

Its digital screen blinked green, displaying a steady temperature that held nothing.