Chapter 40: The Final Countdown
The private jet hummed, a sterile, mechanical white noise that vibrated in Pedro’s teeth. The overhead lights were too bright, casting a clinical blue sheen over the plush grey seats. He hated this plane. It smelled of lemon disinfectant and recycled despair. Outside the window, tinted obsidian dark, the lights of some midwestern city smeared past like fading embers.
He was supposed to be in New York. A Tonight Show appearance, taped, in and out. A quick, bright, painless distraction.
His phone, clutched so tight the case groaned, buzzed again. Not a call. A cascade of texts from the secured channel.
Lux: At the hospital. She’s admitted. Room 4. Everything’s locked down.
Ethan: Perimeter is secure. No press. No signals.
Amara: Medical power of attorney copies are with the head nurse. All staff on this floor have been vetted. Again.
And then, twenty minutes ago, from Cynna herself: Contractions are 5 minutes apart. Don’t you dare try to land this thing yourself.
He’d been mid-interview, grinning, telling some anecdote about the Liminal shoot in Chile, when Lux’s first message had flashed on the watch he’d tried to hide under his cuff. Water broke. Heading to Cedars. His heart had simply stopped. The host’s voice had become a muffled drone. He’d finished the segment on autopilot, charm operating on some backup generator, while his mind screamed through scenarios. The babies weren’t due for five more weeks. This was a contingency, but one they’d relegated to the unlikely column.
He’d fled the studio, Ethan materializing at his side, steering him into a waiting car, then to the airfield. The jet was a G5, faster than commercial, stocked with its own medical crates—another of Amara’s insistences. The thunk-thunk from the forward galley was the pilot’s wife, a retired ER nurse they kept on retainer, checking supplies.
“Another forty minutes, Mr. Pascal,” the co-pilot said, poking his head into the cabin. His voice was apologetic. “We’ve got a tailwind, but…”
Pedro just nodded, his jaw clenched. Forty minutes was a lifetime. A lifetime where Cynna would be in pain, scared, in a sterile room without him. Where his children would enter the world and his first act as their father would be absence.
His ADHD, usually a chaos of branching thoughts, had funneled into a single, laser-focused channel: Get There. Every other thought—Maya, the press, the leak, the fortress they’d built—was static. The only signal was Cynna’s face, the tight set of her mouth when she was concentrating, the way her green eyes would fix on a point in space when she was managing a wave of sensation.
He opened the text chain, his thumb hovering. He typed, deleted, typed again.
Pedro: How is she? Really.
The three dots appeared immediately. Not Cynna. Amara.
Amara: Pissed off. Says the décor is offensive and the bed controls are illogical. She’s arguing with the monitor. Her blood pressure is perfect. She’s perfect.
A half-sob, half-laugh choked out of him. That was her. Arguing with the machinery. Finding the pattern in the chaos.
Lux: Doc says first labors can be slow. Especially with twins. You might make it.
He didn’t want ‘might.’ He needed ‘would.’
The jet hit a patch of turbulence, a sudden sickening lurch that dropped his stomach. The fastened seatbelt sign pinged. He gripped the armrests, his knuckles bone-white. The tremor in his hands was back, the fine shake he’d managed to bury for weeks.
The satellite phone mounted near his seat rang, a harsh, old-fashioned sound. He snatched it up. “Pedro.”
“Mr. Pascal, it’s Dr. Vance.” The obstetrician’s voice was calm, professional, cutting through the jet’s whine. “We’ve done another check. Veronica is vertex, head down. Gabriel is transverse, lying sideways.”
“What does that mean?” The words came out sharp, ragged.
“It means we’re likely looking at a C-section for Gabriel. Ronnie might come vaginally, but Gabe will need a little help. We’re prepping for both possibilities.”
A C-section. Surgery. He wasn’t there. He wouldn’t be there to hold her hand, to stand beside her, to be the barrier between her and the bright lights and the cold steel.
“When?” he asked, the word barely audible.
“Things are progressing. I’d estimate we’ll be meeting them within the next twelve to twenty-four hours. But, Mr. Pascal…” The doctor paused. “The priority is the health of Cynna and the babies. We need to make decisions based on that, not on… travel schedules.”
The professional chill in the words was a slap. He was a ‘travel schedule.’ An obstacle.
“I understand,” Pedro forced out, his voice hollow. “Do what you need to do. Keep her safe.”
“We will.”
The connection died. He sat holding the dead handset to his ear, the drone of the engines filling the void.
Twelve to twenty-four hours. He’d be there in one. Less. He had time. Maybe.
He opened the photo gallery on his phone, scrolling past red carpets and movie stills until he found it. A picture of Cynna, taken a month ago in the canyon house. She was standing in the dappled light of the courtyard, one hand on the Japanese maple, the other resting on the huge curve of her belly. She wasn’t smiling at the camera. She was looking down, her expression one of private, fierce wonder. She wore one of his sweatshirts, the sleeves rolled up. Her silver hair was loose.
He stared at the photo until his eyes burned. This was the woman who saw the grain in concrete, who drafted escape plans for fun, who loved him despite the bomb squad history he brought to her door. She was in a hospital, fighting to bring their children into the world, and he was sitting in a fucking leather chair seven miles above Ohio.
“Can’t this thing go any faster?” he yelled toward the cockpit, the frustration ripping out of him.
The nurse appeared from the galley, her face kind and severe. “Screaming at the laws of physics won’t change them, Mr. Pascal. Breathe. They’re in excellent hands.”
He wanted to throw something. He wanted to punch the wall. Instead, he put his head in his hands and breathed, each inhale a battle.
The fluorescents in Hospital Room 4 were an assault. They hummed at a frequency that felt like a drill in Cynna’s molars. She’d already had Lux ask the nurse twice if they could be dimmed. The answer was a polite, unyielding no.
“It’s a surgical floor, Cynna,” Amara said from the corner chair, her eyes on a tablet. She was dressed in crisp, dark jeans and a blazer, as if she might have to argue a case at any moment. “They need to see what they’re doing.”
“I can see what they’re doing just fine with the warmer, gentler light of reason,” Cynna gritted out as another contraction seized her. It wasn’t the pain, not yet. It was the overwhelming, totalizing ness of it. A internal tectonic shift she had no control over. Her body had become a separate, demanding entity.
Lux was by the bed, a solid, calm presence. She held Cynna’s hand, not squeezing, just offering an anchor. “Breathe through it, hermosa. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight.”
“I’ve read the studies on patterned breathing,” Cynna muttered, her eyes screwed shut. “It’s a placebo. A distraction technique for people who can’t intellectually compartmentalize.”
“So compartmentalize this,” Lux said, unfazed. “What’s the square root of 906?”
Cynna focused, the numbers forming in the dark behind her eyelids. “30.1 recurring,” she hissed as the pressure peaked and then began, blessedly, to ebb. She sank back into the pillows, drenched in a cold sweat. “Where is he?”
“Over Nevada,” Amara said, not looking up. “Making good time.”
“The doctor wants to talk about options,” Lux said gently. “Now that they’ve confirmed Gabe’s position.”
“I heard her,” Cynna said. She stared at the ceiling, at a faint crack in the plaster she’d been mapping for the last hour. It looked like a river delta too. Everything was patterns. Even here. “We wait for Pedro.”
“Cynna,” Amara said, her tone shifting to her lawyer voice. “The doctor’s parameters are based on medical indicators, not on the arrival of a—”
“We wait for Pedro,” Cynna repeated, her voice leaving no room for argument. She turned her head to look at her friend. “He needs to be here. He needs it. We made a constellation, Amara. Fixed points. He’s one of them. I’m not starting this without him.”
Amara held her gaze for a long moment, then gave a single, sharp nod. “Okay. I’ll manage the doctor.”
Another hour bled by, measured in contractions and the soft beeping of the fetal monitors. The pain was becoming more than a sensation; it was a presence, a thick, hot tide she had to ride. Her concentration, usually her superpower, was fracturing. The patterns in the ceiling tile were blurring.
Then, a shift in the energy. A soft knock. The door opened, and Oscar slipped in, still in the clothes he’d worn for Pedro’s security detail in New York. He looked huge in the small room, his eyes immediately finding Cynna.
“Hey,” he said, his voice quiet. “Ethan’s got the hall. Everything’s quiet.” He came to the other side of the bed, opposite Lux. “Pedro’s in the air. He’s coming, Cynna. He’s gonna make it.”
She reached out, and he took her hand. His grip was warm, steady. Another fixed point.
“Did you…” she began, then had to stop, breathe through the beginning of another contraction.
“Did I see the interview?” Oscar finished, smiling. “Yeah. He was good. Charming as hell. Right up until his watch buzzed. Then he looked like he’d seen a ghost. Got through the last three minutes like a pro, though. Fake smile fully operational.”
Cynna managed a weak laugh that turned into a gasp. The contraction built, faster this time, sharper. She bore down, her hands crushing Oscar’s and Lux’s. The world narrowed to the pain.
When it released, she was trembling. “Something’s… different.”
Amara was on her feet, already hitting the call button. “Change,” she said into the intercom. “We need the doctor. Now.”
Dr. Vance entered, her demeanor brisk but calm. She examined the monitors, then checked Cynna with practiced efficiency. Her face changed. The polite mask slipped into something more urgent. “Veronica is descending faster than we anticipated. Gabriel’s heart rate is showing some decelerations with the contractions. We need to move.”
“Move where?” Cynna demanded, panic slicing through the fog of pain.
“To an OR. Now. We’re doing the C-section.”
“No.” The word was a rock. “Pedro—”
“Cynna, we are out of time for waiting,” Dr. Vance said, her voice leaving no room. “Your son is telling us he’s in distress. We need to get him out.”
The word ‘distress’ cut through everything. A cold, clear terror. Gabriel. Her boy. Her little Gabe.
She looked at Amara, at Lux, at Oscar. Their faces were masks of held-back fear, of absolute support. They were her constellation. And they were telling her, without words, to let go.
She closed her eyes. She pictured Pedro’s face, the desperation in his eyes as he’d left. She pictured the concrete walls of their house, the safe, quiet room waiting.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay. Go.”
The room became a flurry of controlled chaos. Monitors were disconnected, the bed unlocked. Oscar and Lux stepped back as orderlies moved in.
“I’ll call him,” Amara said, her phone already to her ear. “I’ll stay on the line the whole time. He’ll hear everything.”
Cynna nodded, tears finally escaping, hot and silent. They weren’t from pain. They were from the fracture in the plan, the unchangeable fact that some journeys are made alone.
As they wheeled her out, the stark, white lights of the hallway streaming past, she heard Amara’s voice, steady and clear.
“Pedro? It’s happening. They’re taking her in. I’m with her. I’m right here.”
The jet was descending, the pressure change popping in Pedro’s ears. He had Amara on speakerphone, the device pressed so close to his face he could smell the ozone.
“—she’s prepped. They’re administering the spinal now. She’s lucid. She’s asking for you.”
“Tell her I’m five minutes out,” he barked, staring at the dark sprawl of Los Angeles rushing up to meet them. “Tell her I’m right there.”
“She knows,” Amara said. Her voice was muffled, then clear, as if she was moving. “I have to go in. I’ll keep the line open.”
There was a rustle, the sound of a door swinging, then the clatter of a phone being set down. He heard the amplified, metallic sounds of an operating room: the beep of a machine, a murmured instruction, the clang of a tray.
And then he heard Cynna’s voice. Thin, strained, but hers.
“The ceiling is… perforated acoustic tile. 2x4 feet. Standard hospital grade.”
A nurse’s voice, gentle. “That’s right. Just try to relax, sweetheart.”
“I’m not your sweetheart. My name is Cynna.” A pause. A sharp intake of breath. “I can feel pressure. A lot of pressure. Is that normal?”
“Perfectly normal,” Dr. Vance’s voice, calm, clinical. “You’ll feel pushing, but no pain.”
Pedro’s heart was a wild animal in his chest. The jet touched down with a squeal of tires, a jolt that ran through his bones. It was still rolling when he unbuckled and lunged for the door.
“Sir!” the nurse called after him.
He didn’t stop. The door opened, the airstairs weren’t even fully deployed. He jumped the last few feet onto the tarmac, the hot, jet-fuel-tinged air hitting him like a wall. A black SUV was already there, engine running, door open. Ethan was at the wheel.
Pedro dove in. “Go!”
Ethan didn’t speak. The car peeled away, sirens erupting from the front grille. They weren’t police sirens; they were a raw, electronic wail that cleared a path through the late-night traffic.
On the phone, still clutched in Pedro’s shaking hand, he heard a new sound. A thin, reedy, furious cry. It cut through the OR sounds like a siren of its own.
A choked sob from Amara. “Oh, god. Oh, Cynna.”
“It’s a girl!” a voice called out. “Time 23:17.”
Veronica Jean. Ronnie.
Pedro pressed the phone to his ear, tears streaming down his face, the city lights blurring past the window. “Cynna! Baby, I’m here! I’m almost there!”
There was a gasp, then Cynna’s voice, trembling with effort and awe. “She’s… she’s so loud.”
Then, a minute later, another cry. Deeper, more bewildered. A stuttering wail.
“And it’s a boy!” Dr. Vance announced, her voice rising with triumph. “23:19!”
Gabriel Jose. Gabe.
Pedro was sobbing openly now, his hand over his mouth. “They’re here. They’re here.”
He heard Cynna crying too, a soft, exhausted sound of relief. “Pedro?”
“I’m here! I’m two blocks away!”
The SUV tore through the hospital’s underground parking, tires screeching against the stained concrete. Ethan pulled to a violent stop at a secluded service entrance, the door already propped open by a man in scrubs who looked more like a linebacker.
“Fourth floor,” the man grunted, stepping aside.
Pedro was already moving, a bolt of pure adrenaline launched from the car. He hit the service elevator, jamming the button with his thumb. The ascent felt like a century, the numbers over the door blinking with infuriating slowness. Four. The doors slid open to a quiet, dim hallway.
It was empty except for Oscar and Lux, who stood like sentinels outside a pair of heavy double doors marked ‘4 – Surgical Recovery.’ Their postures relaxed by a fraction when they saw him, but their eyes stayed sharp, scanning the hall.
Oscar nodded toward the doors. “They’re just in there. All good, man. All good.”
Lux stepped forward, blocking his path for a second. Her hand landed on his chest, a firm, grounding pressure. “Breathe. She’s okay. They’re all okay.”
He pushed past, a ragged breath tearing from his lungs. The doors sighed open.
The room was washed in soft, low light, a stark contrast to the glaring OR he’d heard through the phone. The air was warm, carrying a faint scent of antiseptic and something new, something sweet and milky.
Cynna was in the raised bed, propped on pillows. She looked pale, exhausted, her silver hair damp and stuck to her temples. In her arms, swaddled in two striped hospital blankets, were two tiny, sleeping forms.
She looked up as he entered. Her green eyes, usually so sharp and assessing, were soft, dazed with drugs and wonder.
For a second, he just stood there, frozen in the doorway. The world narrowed to this frame: Cynna, and the two small bundles she held against her chest. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, joyous drum.
Then he was moving, crossing the room in three long strides. He fell to his knees beside the bed, his hands coming up to cradle her face, then hovering, unsure where to land, afraid to touch.
“You’re here,” she whispered, her voice rough.
“I’m here,” he choked out. His eyes darted from her face to the babies and back. “Are you…?”
“I’m fine. Tired. They gave me the good drugs.” A faint smile touched her lips. “Meet your children.”
He leaned in closer, his breath catching. The baby on her left had a head of dark, damp hair, their face a perfect, wrinkled rose. The one on the right was fairer, their features more delicate, a little bow of a mouth pursed in sleep.
“Which…?” he managed.
“Left is Gabe. Right is Ronnie.” Cynna adjusted her arms minutely. “She came out screaming. He just… looked around, like he was taking notes.”
A wet laugh escaped him. He reached out one trembling finger, gently stroking Gabe’s cheek with the back of his knuckle. The skin was impossibly soft, warm. The baby stirred, a tiny frown flickering across his brow before settling.
“Hey,” Pedro whispered, his voice breaking. “Hey, little man.”
Ronnie, as if jealous of the attention, let out a small, squeaking sigh. Her little fist punched the air inside the swaddle.
“And you,” Pedro said, shifting his gaze to her. “You’re the loud one, huh?” He looked back at Cynna, the full force of the moment crashing over him. “You did it. You amazing, terrifying, brilliant woman. You did it.”
Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over. “We did it.” She shifted slightly. “Do you want to hold one?”
He recoiled, a flicker of pure panic in his eyes. “I… I don’t want to…”
“You won’t drop them,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. It was the same voice she used when she explained a plot hole. Factual. Assured. “Support the head. Like this.”
With careful, rehearsed movements she’d clearly read about, she guided Gabe into the cradle of his arms. The weight was nothing, everything. A profound, terrifying warmth seeped through the blanket into Pedro’s chest. He looked down at his son’s sleeping face, at the long lashes dusting the plump cheeks, and something inside him shattered and reformed in an instant.
He couldn’t speak. He could only stare, tears streaming down his face, silent.
Amara materialized from the corner shadow, her phone held discreetly. She snapped a single picture. The click was soft in the quiet room.
Pedro didn’t even notice. He was orbiting a new sun.
After a long while, he reluctantly handed Gabe back, his arms feeling immediately cold and empty. He took Ronnie next, her lighter weight a different kind of astonishment. She blinked open bleary, dark blue eyes, staring unfocused at the strange, crying giant holding her.
“Hi, Ronnie,” he breathed. “I’m your dad. I’m sorry I’m late.”
She yawned, a comically wide gape, and closed her eyes again.
The doctor came in then, Dr. Vance, her scrubs changed. She gave Pedro a brief, professional smile. “Everyone is perfectly healthy. Mom did incredibly well. Babies are strong. We’ll keep them for a couple of days for observation, given they’re a bit early, but all signs are excellent.”
Pedro could only nod, Ronnie a precious weight against his heartbeat.
“We’ll give you some time,” the doctor said, slipping back out.
The door clicked shut, leaving them in their fragile, private universe. Cynna sagged into the pillows, the adrenaline clearly leaving her. The pain meds were making her eyelids heavy.
“You should sleep,” Pedro said, settling into the chair beside her bed, Ronnie still in his arms.
“Mmm.” Her eyes were already closing. “Did you see the nurse with the weirdly patterned scrubs? Geometric owls. It was… dissonant.”
He smiled. “I missed it.”
“Patterns everywhere,” she mumbled, half-asleep. Then her eyes fluttered open again, fixing on him with sudden clarity. “You saw them.”
He knew what she meant. Not the babies. The others. The security. The reality waiting outside this warm, quiet room.
“I saw them,” he said softly. “They’ve got the hall. Ethan’s sweeping the perimeter again. Oscar’s pretending to get coffee. It’s locked down, Cynna.”
She searched his face, looking for the lie, the evasion. She found only weary, determined truth. Her shoulders relaxed a fraction.
“Good.” Her eyes closed again. “The constellation.”
“Yeah.” He looked from Ronnie’s sleeping face to Gabe, now snuggled against Cynna’s side. “It just got bigger.”
He sat there, holding his daughter, watching his fiancée and son sleep. The silence was a living thing, thick with their mingled breath and the soft, snuffling sounds from the bundles of blankets. The fear that had been a constant companion for months was still there, a cold stone in his gut. But it was quieter now, drowned out by the overwhelming, roaring love that filled the space between his ribs.
He leaned his head back against the chair, exhaling a breath he felt like he’d been holding for years. Outside the door, he knew, his friends stood guard. Outside the hospital, the world continued, hungry and indifferent.
But in here, for now, there was only this. His family, whole and breathing. He let his eyes close, just for a moment, imprinting the feeling: the weight of his child, the sound of Cynna’s sleep-steady breath, the scent of new skin.