A low moan echoed through the vents. Female. Pained, but clinging to consciousness. The beam of his flashlight only illuminated whatever was staring down the barrel of his service weapon. The muzzle of the gun pushed the door open, and Nick followed. No power. Emergency lights lit the room, casting ghosts against the white paint.
He swung his light into the room and jumped back with an involuntary twitch before he realized the face across the room was a poster. A dowdy woman next to the mirror image of her smiling self once she’d invested in cryo-sculpting. Chairs worn, but clean. Magazines expired and dog-eared. It was a waiting room. Any waiting room from any clinic in the country.
Double vestibule doors kept the faint odor from permeating the clinic, but once past the set of doors to
