Chapter 14 - The Corridor of Shadows and the Ambush in the West Wing
Down in the main lobby of St. Jude’s Memorial Hospital, the sleek glass doors that welcomed the city’s broken and unlucky were now a pulverized mosaic of shards littering the blood-streaked linoleum.
Donato Rinaldi stepped through the wreckage, his custom-tailored charcoal suit immaculate, his silver-streaked hair slicked back with expensive pomade, and a gold-plated revolver held casually in his right hand.
Behind him marched a dozen heavily armed enforcers in tactical gear, their faces hidden behind dark balaclavas, their submachine guns raised and ready to sweep every shadow in the building.
“Gallo!” Donato’s voice echoed off the high, vaulted ceilings of the abandoned reception area, dripping with mocking amusement.
“Come out and play, Dominic! You can’t hide in a charity ward forever! The city belongs to whoever owns the docks, and right now, your ledger is burning down to ash!”
From the shadows of the arched hallway leading toward the west wing, a single voice answered back—cool, level, and entirely devoid of fear.
“You’re standing in a hospital, Donato,” Dominic’s voice drifted down the corridor, amplified by the natural acoustics of the stone walls.
“Which means you’re standing in a place where people come to die. You picked a very poor location for your funeral.”
Donato chuckled, a harsh, grating sound that bounced off the walls.
“You’re alone, Gallo! Your boys are scattered, and your little brother is bleeding out in a back room! Drop the gun and walk out with your hands behind your head, and maybe—just maybe—I’ll let you choose which river your body gets dumped into!”
“I’m not alone, Donato,” Dominic replied.
“And I’m not walking anywhere.”
At a subtle flick of Donato’s wrist, four of his tactical enforcers surged forward into the dark mouth of the west wing corridor, their weapons sweeping left and right as they advanced with military precision.
They rounded the corner into the narrow hallway—
And walked straight into a meat grinder.
From the ceiling vents above them, Vance and two other enforcers dropped silently like spiders from a web, heavy iron pipes whistling through the air with devastating force.
The first tactical enforcer went down instantly with a sickening crack as a pipe connected with the side of his helmet.
The second man tried to raise his submachine gun, but Vance slammed his boot into the striker’s knee joint, sending him crashing to the floor before driving the butt of his pistol into the man’s temple.
The remaining two Rinaldi scouts spun around to fire, but a burst of suppressed gunfire from the shadows at the end of the hall chewed through the plaster wall above their heads, raining dust and splinters down into their eyes.
“Fall back! Fall back!” one of the enforcers screamed, scrambling backward over his unconscious comrades.
Donato Rinaldi, standing back in the ruined lobby, watched his men retreat in disarray, his face twisting into an ugly mask of pure, unadulterated rage.
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“Idiots!” Donato roared, raising his gold-plated revolver.
“Burn the wing! If they won’t come out, burn the whole damn hospital down around them!”
