Chapter 2 - The Devil's Chariot
The final seven hours of Lily’s shift were a masterclass in psychological torture.
Every time the elevator dinged, her heart skipped a beat. Every time a shadow moved past the frosted glass of the ward doors, her hand tightened around the antique silver forceps she had hidden deep inside her scrub pocket.
The Volkovs know who stitched the seam.
Ivan Volkov was a ghost story the trauma nurses whispered about during the 3:00 a.m. lulls. He was the reason the ER saw men with no fingerprints, the reason bodies washed up on the shores of Lake Michigan with their teeth removed. If Volkov knew her name, her life in Chicago was already over.
At 6:45 a.m., Lily handed her charts to the morning shift nurse without a word. She bypassed the locker room entirely. She didn't want to run into Vance. She didn't want to explain anything.
She walked quickly down the back stairwell, the heavy fire doors echoing behind her like gunshots.
She stood by the staff exit on the ground floor, staring through the reinforced glass doors into the misty, gray Chicago morning. The rain was coming down in sheets, slicking the pavement and obscuring the streetlights.
A sleek, unmarked black SUV idled by the curb, its heavily tinted windows offering zero reflection. Exhaust plumed thick and white from its tailpipes.
Lily hesitated. She had tried calling the police twice from a prepaid burner phone during her break, but hung up before dispatch could answer both times.
If Vance had truly covered up the camera footage, she had no tangible proof Mercer was ever in the hospital. Reporting it now would only implicate her in hiding a fugitive, treating a gunshot wound without reporting it, and tampering with evidence. She would lose her license, go to prison, and likely be killed inside a cell anyway.
Pushing the heavy glass door open, she stepped into the freezing rain and approached the vehicle.
The rear passenger door clicked open automatically before she even touched the handle.
She climbed in. The interior smelled of expensive leather and gun oil.
Cole was in the driver's seat, his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror. He didn't turn around.
"Get in, keep your head below the headrest," he ordered, slamming the gearshift into drive before she had even closed the door properly.
"Where are we going?" Lily demanded, gripping the edge of the leather seat as the heavy SUV lurched forward, its engine roaring with unnatural power.
"Out of the blast radius," Cole replied grimly.
"I have rights," Lily shot back, her voice shaking with a mix of anger and terror. "I'm not a soldier in your gang war. You can't just kidnap me."
"You want me to pull over?" Cole asked, his voice deadpan. He tapped the brake slightly. "I can let you out right here. You can walk back to your apartment on Superior Street. But you should know that Ivan’s cleaners have been watching your fire escape since 4:00 a.m."
Lily swallowed hard, looking out the tinted window. The familiar streets of downtown Chicago suddenly looked like a war zone.
"Who told them?" she asked quietly. "There were only four of us in that trauma bay."
"Money talks, Nurse Hayes. Someone in your hospital got a very large deposit this morning. We'll find out who later."
Cole accelerated, weaving violently through the early morning commuter traffic. They sped onto Lake Shore Drive, the grey, churning waters of Lake Michigan blurring past them on the right.
Suddenly, a heavy, sickening thud rocked the SUV.
Metal screeched against metal. Lily screamed, thrown hard against the side door as Cole spun the steering wheel to correct their trajectory.
"Down!" Cole roared.
She dove sideways onto the floorboards just as a massive silver sedan rammed into their rear quarter panel a second time, trying to pit-maneuver the heavy SUV into the concrete median.
"Are they shooting at us in broad daylight?!" Lily gasped, staring in horror as a spiderweb of cracks erupted on the rear windshield from an unseen impact.
"They don't care about the daylight," Cole grunted, pulling a heavy Glock 19 from his shoulder holster with his right hand while steering effortlessly with his left. "They care about making an example out of the woman who put Mercer back together."
The silver sedan pulled up along their left flank. Through the rain-streaked window, Lily saw a man in a black mask lower the passenger window, raising a compact submachine gun.
"Hold on!" Cole yelled.
Instead of speeding up, Cole slammed his foot on the brake pedal.
The heavy SUV skidded, the anti-lock brakes stuttering violently. The sudden deceleration caused the silver sedan to shoot past them. The masked gunman fired, but the bullets shattered the empty air where the SUV had been a fraction of a second before.
Before the sedan's driver could correct, Cole slammed the gas pedal to the floor. The SUV leaped forward, its reinforced steel bumper slamming directly into the rear axle of the sedan.
The impact was devastating. The silver car spun out of control, tires screeching in a high-pitched wail before it smashed head-on into the concrete divider. Smoke and steam instantly geysered from its crumpled hood.
Cole didn't stop. He didn't even check the rearview mirror. He pushed the SUV to ninety miles an hour, taking the next exit ramp so fast the tires squealed in protest.
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Lily pulled herself up from the floorboards, her knees bruising, her breathing ragged. She looked at the stoic enforcer in the driver's seat, then down at her own trembling hands.
The phantom stain of Mercer’s blood was still there. And now, she realized with terrifying clarity, it was never going to wash off.
