Chapter 6 - The Ambush in the Pediatric Ward
The two operatives sent by Frankie Scalise strode down the pastel-yellow hallway with casual, menacing confidence. Beneath their heavy coats, their hands rested firmly on silenced firearms. They had bypassed the lobby security by flashing forged badge credentials, slipping past the overworked reception staff with ease. Linda pressed her back hard against the wall outside Room 412, her heart pounding violently against her ribs. The encrypted warning flashing on her burner phone burned into her retinas: ‘Stay inside. Do not move.’ She slipped back into Keo’s room, pulling the heavy door until it clicked softly into its latch, leaving only a narrow vertical slit of visibility. Inside, the nurses were busy adjusting the IV drip lines, murmurs of encouragement filling the small space. Keo was looking up at the ceiling monitor, drifting slowly into a chemically induced sleep. Linda’s breath came in ragged gasps. Who was tracking her? Were they federal agents closing in on Dominic’s money trail, or something much worse? Outside in the hallway, heavy footsteps paused directly in front of Room 412. A low murmur rumbled through the door gap. “Check this room. Scalise said she was spotted heading toward the east wing after leaving the administrative desk.” “Clear it fast. We grab her, bundle her into the service elevator, and we’re out before Gallo’s clean-up crew even realizes she’s compromised.” The doorknob began to turn. Linda’s panic reached a fever pitch. If these men entered, Keo would be terrified, his medical equipment disrupted, his fragile life put directly in the crosshairs of a brutal mob war she didn't even understand. She stepped backward toward the bed, her hands trembling as she reached for the heavy metal call button on the wall. Before the door could swing fully open, a sudden, brutal crash echoed from the opposite end of the hallway near the stairwell. BAM! The heavy fire door flew off its hydraulic hinges, smashing against the drywall with deafening force. Three towering figures dressed in all-black tactical gear—wearing Kevlar vests emblazoned with no insignia and wielding submachine guns with terrifying precision—poured out of the stairwell. Dominic Gallo’s personal extraction team had arrived. “Federal—wait, what the hell—” One of Moretti’s hitmen tried to draw his weapon, but he never cleared leather. A silenced crack split the air. A high-velocity round caught the hitman square in the shoulder, spinning him around and slamming him hard into the vending machines opposite the nurses’ station. The second hitman raised his pistol toward the tactical squad, but a swift, devastating butt-stroke to the temple from the lead Gallo enforcer dropped him to the linoleum like a stone, unconscious before he even hit the floor. The entire firefight lasted less than four seconds. The hallway smelled of cordite and ozone. The nurses inside the neighboring rooms screamed, diving under desks as emergency alarms began to wail across the floor. From the center of the tactical squad, a tall, imposing figure stepped forward. Dominic Gallo. He wore a heavy wool overcoat, his collar turned up against the chill, his face carved from granite. He didn’t look at the unconscious men bleeding on the floor. His slate-gray eyes locked directly onto the partially open door of Room 412. He pushed the door open with two fingers, stepping into the sterile light of the room where Linda stood frozen in absolute shock.
