The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 503

Chapter 247-1

The silence is worse than the gunfire.

It drops over the speaker like an iron curtain, sudden and absolute.

One second, the channel is filled with the rhythmic crunch of boots, hard tactical breathing,

and the muffled crackle of suppressed rounds echoed down concrete corridors.

The next – nothing. Just a flat, dead hiss of open air.

“Byte,” I say. “What’s going on? What happened to the feed?”

Byte’s fingers are already blurring across the mechanical keyboards, a flash of motion beneath the harsh monitor light. Lines of red code cascade down his center screen.

“Signal drop,” he says. “They just passed through the thick reinforced concrete of the sub–basement. The steel rebar is eating the high–frequency band.”

“Fix it,” Jade demands, stepping up beside his chair. Her knuckles are white, her posture vibrating with wired, anxious energy. “Reroute it through the repeater on the roof. Byte, bring

them back!”

“I’m working on it,” Byte snaps. It’s the first c***k in his cool, clinical demeanor all night. He grabs a sliding frequency bar on the mixing board, driving the signal gain into the red. “The subterranean shielding is thick. Give me a second.”

A second stretches into thirty. Then sixty. Then ninety.

The silence fills the room like rising water.

Willow’s grip on my fingers tightens until it’s nearly painful, but I don’t pull away. I can’t. My other hand rests flat over the rounded swell of my belly, my thumb stroking the wool of

Locke’s sweater in tiny, frantic circles.

‘Breathe‘, I tell myself. ‘Just breathe. They’re getting him‘.

Two minutes. One hundred and twenty seconds of pure, unadulterated hell.

“Come on,” Jade whispers, her eyes locked on the flat, motionless green audio wave on the primary display. “Come on, Cobra. Say something. Anything.”

Byte throws a manual override switch. “Bypassing the primary encrypted node… bridging to

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Chapter 247-1

Mayhem’s tactical sub–relay –

+25 Points

The speaker pops with a violent spike of static, and the sound of war instantly floods back

into the room.

A deafening c***k–BANG of a flash bang detonates right into the microphone, followed by the heavy, shuddering shockwave of a breaching charge blowing what sounds like a steel door. The raw screech of torn iron cuts through the radio, immediately buried beneath the sharp,

terrifying sound of close–quarters combat.

“Left! Cover the left corner!” Dad’s roar punches through the static, raw and savage. “Down!

Get down!”

“Suppressing fire!” Big Mac’s voice booms, punctuated by the rapid, rhythmic

thwip–thwip–thwip–thwip of suppressed automatic fire rattling in a tight, echo–heavy space.”

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