Chapter 9 - The Siege of the Third Floor
I sprang to my feet instantly, shoving my phone into my pocket as the blood drained from my face.
“Claire, grab Ethan. Now!” I barked, my voice cracking through the quiet room like a gunshot.
Claire didn't hesitate.
She didn't ask questions.
The raw maternal instinct took over before her mind could process the danger.
She unclipped the low-flow oxygen monitor, wrapped Ethan tightly in the green blanket with white stars, and clutched him against her chest.
Ethan let out a startled, frightened cry, sensing the sudden spike of adrenaline in the room.
The hallway outside erupted into chaos.
A loud, muffled crack-crack-crack echoed through the heavy fire doors down the hall.
Suppressed gunfire.
“Stay in the interior bathroom,” I commanded Claire, pushing her toward the small, windowless restroom attached to the private suite.
“Lock the deadbolt from the inside.”
“Do not open this door for anyone except me or Marcus.”
“Adrian, what’s happening?” she cried out, tears spilling down her face as Ethan screamed in her arms.
“Julian’s contingency plan,” I said between clenched teeth, drawing my compact semi-automatic pistol from my shoulder holster under my jacket.
“He knew he was going down today.”
“He sent clean-up men to eliminate the witnesses before the feds could interview them.”
I pushed her into the bathroom, slammed the heavy wooden door shut, and heard the metallic slide of the interior deadbolt click into place.
A second later, the double doors at the entrance of the pediatric wing were blown off their hinges with a violent, concussive blast.
Plaster dust, smoke, and shattered drywall filled the corridor.
Through the haze, I saw our two private security guards lying motionless on the linoleum floor, bleeding heavily from close-range bullet wounds.
Two men dressed in tactical black gear and ballistic masks moved swiftly through the smoke, their assault rifles raised to their shoulders.
They were professionals.
Cartel mercenaries hired to burn the entire floor to the ground.
I backed behind the thick structural pillar beside the nursing station, my pistol raised, my breathing slowing into ice-cold focus.
“Clear the rooms!” one of the mercenaries barked in Spanish, his rifle sweeping across the empty nursery doors.
“The woman and the kid are in 312!”
They were twenty paces away.
I stepped out from behind the concrete pillar, leveled my weapon with both hands, and squeezed the trigger twice.
The first round struck the lead mercenary squarely in the throat, bypassing his ceramic body armor.
He dropped like a stone, choking on his own blood as his rifle clattered against the floor.
The second mercenary reacted with blinding speed, dropping to one knee and spraying a burst of automatic fire toward my position.
Rounds tore into the concrete pillar, sending sharp chips of stone and pulverized drywall flying into my face.
One bullet grazed my left bicep, slicing through my tailored suit and burning like a red-hot iron rod against the muscle.
I grunted, ignoring the warm blood running down my sleeve.
I peeked around the corner, waiting for his reload cadence.
Four shots... five shots... the metallic click of an empty magazine.
I stepped out, aimed for the center of his forehead, and fired once.
The second mercenary collapsed backward, his weapon clattering into the debris.
Silence fell over the corridor, broken only by the hysterical wailing of a fire alarm down the hall and the distant shriek of hospital sirens rising from the street below.
I lowered my weapon, my chest heaving, the smell of cordite and burning drywall filling my lungs.
Then I heard heavy boots running up the emergency stairwell behind me.
I spun around, raising my pistol with one round left in the chamber.
Marcus burst through the fire door, his jacket torn, holding an automatic shotgun with smoking barrels.
“Adrian!” Marcus yelled, seeing me standing in the smoke.
“There were two more in the lobby! I dropped them by the pharmacy!”
“Claire and the baby are in the bathroom,” I wheezed, clutching my bleeding arm.
“Is the perimeter clear?”
“The police are two minutes out,” Marcus said, scanning the bloody hallway with cold efficiency.
“Julian’s entire operational network has been mobilized.”
“They’re not trying to negotiate anymore, Adrian.”
“They’re trying to wipe out your bloodline before the federal warrants are signed.”
I walked over to the bathroom door of room 312 and knocked three times.
“Claire,” I said, my voice shaking with raw adrenaline.
“It’s me. Open the door.”
The deadbolt slid back.
Claire emerged, her face stark white, clutching Ethan so tightly to her chest that the baby was muffled beneath the green blanket.
She looked at the blood dripping from my left arm, then at the bodies lying in the hallway through the open doorway.
Her breath hitched in horror.
“We are leaving right now,” I said, grabbing her elbow with my uninjured hand.
“Where?” she whispered, trembling from head to toe.
May you like
“To the one place Julian Vance cannot touch,” I replied, guiding her out of the room over the shattered glass.
“To the heart of the fortress.”
