Chapter 7 - The Ambush at the Clinic
The rain had finally ceased by nine o'clock the following morning, leaving the Chicago pavement wet and black like polished onyx.
A low autumn fog rolled in from Lake Michigan, cloaking the glass towers of Streeterville in a dense, ghostly haze.
I stepped out of the black Lincoln Town Car in front of the private medical pavilion on Superior Street.
Beside me walked Evelyn Cross, her sharp tailored suit hidden beneath a long camel-hair coat, her hand firmly gripping her leather briefcase.
Behind us walked four private security contractors hired through a non-syndicate executive protection agency based in Minneapolis.
I had paid for their services upfront using the emergency retainer my mother had left in a private trust fund before her death.
I knew that stepping into any medical facility associated with the Blackwood empire was walking directly into the dragon's lair.
Two black Escalades were already idling at the curb near the ambulance bay, their exhaust plumes rising into the chilly air.
Daniel was standing near the revolving glass doors, flanked by his personal bodyguard, a six-foot-four enforcer named Vincent.
Daniel looked exhausted; the sharp contours of his face were hollowed out by twenty-four hours of nonstop crisis management.
When his eyes found mine, a strange mixture of relief, fury, and possessive longing flickered across his dark features.
He walked toward me, his long strides closing the distance between us before Evelyn could interpose herself.
“Claire,” he said, his voice husky and strained from lack of sleep.
“You don't need these private mercenaries around you; my men have secured the entire perimeter.”
“Your men are the reason I need private mercenaries, Daniel,” I replied, not breaking eye contact.
Evelyn Cross stepped between us, holding up a laminated court order bearing the red stamp of the Cook County chancery judge.
“Mr. Blackwood, back away from my client.”
“This screening was ordered pursuant to Section 504 of the Illinois Marriage and Dissolution of Marriage Act.”
“The chain of custody will be supervised exclusively by Dr. Morrison, an independent medical examiner appointed by the state.”
Daniel’s jaw tightened, but he took a half-step back, recognizing the legal trap waiting for him if he violated the judicial boundaries.
“I am not here to fight with you, Claire,” he whispered, his eyes searching mine for any trace of the obedient woman who had poured his coffee for three years.
“I am here to finish this nightmare once and for all so we can speak privately like adults.”
Before I could answer, a third vehicle—a discreet gray sedan—pulled up to the curb.
The rear door opened, and Olivia Hayes stepped out, looking like a shattered ghost.
Her expensive makeup was gone, replaced by a pasty, gray complexion and swollen, purple rings beneath her eyes.
She wore an oversized wool cardigan and flat shoes, clutching an embroidered handbag against her stomach with trembling fingers.
Two private guards provided by Uncle Marcus’s branch of the family flanked her immediately, treating her more like a prisoner of war than a pregnant executive.
When Olivia saw Daniel, her face twisted in a pathetic plea for salvation.
“Daniel,” she whimpered, trying to step past Marcus’s guards. “Please tell them to stop watching my apartment. They took my passport.”
Daniel didn't even look at her face; his eyes remained fixed on her flat stomach with a cold, analytical detachment that made my stomach turn.
“Follow the doctor inside, Olivia,” Daniel said, his voice completely flat. “Answer the questions and let them draw the blood.”
We turned toward the entrance of the clinic when the sharp screech of tires echoed across Superior Street.
A heavy white utility van with tinted windows and stolen commercial plates blew through the red light at the intersection.
The van jumped the curb forty feet away, smashing directly through the metal newspaper kiosks and careening toward the medical pavilion.
“Down!” Vincent roared, drawing his concealed firearm with terrifying speed.
The side door of the utility van slid back with a violent metallic bang.
Two masked men wearing dark ballistic vests leaned out of the moving vehicle, carrying semi-automatic submachine guns.
Muzzle flashes erupted in rapid succession, spraying a deafening barrage of bullets across the glass facade of the medical pavilion.
Plate-glass windows shattered into thousands of crystal shards, raining down onto the wet concrete.
Marcus’s two guards were hit instantly, dropping to the pavement in pools of dark crimson before they could unholster their weapons.
Olivia screamed—a high, piercing shriek of pure terror—as she collapsed against the stone pillar, curling into a ball.
Daniel didn't run for cover.
In a single, violent motion, he lunged across the pavement, throwing his heavy frame directly over me to shield my body against the stone wall.
The heat of his chest pressed hard against my back, his arms locking around my shoulders like iron bands.
Bullets chewed through the brickwork six inches above our heads, sending clouds of choking pulverized mortar into our hair.
“Vincent! Take the driver!” Daniel bellowed, reaching beneath his wool coat and pulling his custom black automatic weapon from its holster.
Daniel leaned around the pillar and fired three measured, lethal shots through the windshield of the utility van.
The driver slumped forward over the steering wheel, his horn blaring continuously as the van slammed into a concrete planter and stalled.
The second shooter leaped out of the sliding door, not aiming at Daniel, but sprinting directly toward the cowering form of Olivia Hayes.
He wasn't trying to shoot her.
He was trying to drag her into the street.
My Minneapolis security guards returned fire, pinning the shooter against the side panel of the crashed van.
Daniel stepped out into the open, his weapon leveled with terrifying precision, and fired a single round through the shooter’s shoulder.
The man dropped to his knees, dropping his weapon, clutching his mangled collarbone as blood soaked through his tactical vest.
Sirens began to wail in the distance, echoing off the high-rises along Michigan Avenue.
The entire firefight had lasted less than thirty seconds.
Daniel turned back to me, his chest heaving, his face spattered with brick dust and gunpowder residue.
He reached out with a trembling, calloused hand to check my face for injuries.
“Claire, are you hit? Look at me—are you bleeding?”
I slapped his hand away with all the strength left in my body, stumbling back against the shattered glass of the clinic doorway.
“Don't touch me, Daniel.”
His eyes widened in shock, wounded by the absolute revulsion etched into my face.
“I just took a bullet for you, Claire!” he roared, gesturing toward the shredded fabric along his left arm where a ricochet had grazed his sleeve.
“You didn't take a bullet for me, Daniel,” I said, my voice cutting through the ringing in our ears like cold steel.
“You brought a war to my feet because you couldn't control your greed and your lust.”
I pointed toward the wounded gunman lying on the pavement, groaning in agony as my security team pinned him to the ground.
Tattooed across the back of the shooter’s neck was a distinct crimson falcon—the unmistakable mark of the Vance syndicate from Detroit.
“They didn't come here to kill me,” I said, looking over at Olivia, who was trembling violently in a pool of shattered glass.
“They came here to silence your assistant before she could take that paternity test.”
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Daniel’s gaze slowly shifted from the wounded shooter to Olivia’s pale, terrified face.
For the first time, the horrifying realization of who he had invited into his bed began to settle into Daniel’s arrogant mind.
