Chapter 8 - The Red Corridor
The silence that followed the gunfire was thicker and more terrifying than the noise had been. In the blood-red glow of the emergency lights, Richard didn't hesitate. He grabbed Vance by the collar of his trench coat and hauled him toward the door of Trauma One.
“Inside. Now.”
Vance drew his standard-issue Glock from his shoulder holster, his thumb flicking the safety catch with an audible click. “They aren't here for negotiations. That was a suppressed submachine gun—nine millimeter, professional execution. They’re clearing the floor to leave no witnesses.”
Richard slipped into the room and locked the heavy glass slider, though he knew tempered glass would offer zero resistance against armor-piercing rounds. Mrs. Gable was already on her feet, holding a stainless steel surgical tray like a weapon, her body positioned squarely between the door and Lily’s bed. Lily remained asleep, heavily sedated by the anticonvulsants, her breathing deep and rhythmic beneath the oxygen mask.
“Turn off the vitals monitor,” Richard commanded in a low, controlled hiss. “The beeping will give away our position through the wall.”
Mrs. Gable moved with surprising efficiency, reaching behind the medical tower and yanking the main power cable. The screen died instantly, plunging the room into the quiet hiss of the wall-mounted oxygen valve.
Footsteps approached outside—slow, deliberate, tactical rubber soles squeaking faintly against the polished linoleum. Two shooters, possibly three, moving in a standard room-clearing wedge.
Richard looked around the sterile room. There were no firearms, no heavy furniture to barricade the opening, only stainless steel rolling tables, IV poles, and a heavy mobile defibrillator unit plugged into an isolated wall circuit.
He moved to the defibrillator. He dialed the charge setting past the standard clinical threshold, cranking the manual dial to maximum—three hundred and sixty joules. He detached the heavy hard-paddles, gripping the insulated rubber handles, the charging capacitor emitting a high-pitched, rising whine that was swallowed by the ambient groan of the hospital’s ventilation system.
“Marcus,” Richard whispered, positioning himself flat against the wall directly beside the glass sliding door. “When the glass breaks, don't fire at center mass. Fire low. They’ll be wearing Level III plates.”
A silhouette appeared against the frosted glass panel. A tall, broad-shouldered figure wearing a ballistic helmet, night-vision optics flipped up, and a tactical vest devoid of insignia. The man didn't bother trying the handle; he raised a suppressed MPX, aiming directly at the lock cylinder.
Thump-thump-thump.
The tempered glass shattered into a million tiny crystalline cubes, showering the floor. The operator kicked through the remaining frame, stepping into the room with his weapon raised toward the bed.
He never had the chance to acquire his target.
Richard stepped out from the blind spot behind the doorframe, driving the two defibrillator paddles straight into the side of the shooter’s neck, bridging the gap between his jawline and the collar of his Kevlar vest. Richard slammed the discharge triggers with both thumbs.
Three hundred and sixty joules of electrical energy surged directly through the man’s carotid sinus and brainstem.
The shooter’s entire body went violently rigid, his muscles contracting with such ferocious intensity that his finger snapped back against the trigger of the submachine gun, sending a wild three-round burst into the acoustic ceiling tiles. The smell of scorched hair and ionized flesh filled the room. The man collapsed forward like an empty suit of armor, his nervous system completely overloaded, twitching once before lying motionless on the shattered glass.
Vance stepped out from behind the curtain, aimed through the shattered doorway into the red-lit hall, and fired three rapid shots. A second operative, caught mid-advance ten feet down the corridor, caught two rounds in the pelvic girdle and one in the throat, collapsing backward with a wet gargle.
Richard didn't pause to admire their work. He dropped the smoking paddles, knelt beside the fallen gunman, and stripped the MPX from his limp fingers. He checked the magazine—twenty-seven rounds remaining, hollow points. He looked down at the dead man’s wrist.
Tattooed on the inside of the right forearm was a crude, stylized brand: an anchor wrapped in barbed wire, with the roman numerals X-IV.
Richard recognized that brand. It was the private insignia of the deck crew that had manned Julian’s flagship yacht a decade ago.
“Vance,” Richard said, his voice dropping into an icy register of pure, lethal resolve. “Get Mrs. Gable and Lily out through the service freight elevator at the end of the hall. Take them to the precinct. Put them in the holding cells behind the booking desk—nowhere else.”
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“Where are you going?” Vance demanded, reloading his sidearm.
Richard racked the bolt of the captured weapon, his eyes reflecting the deep red of the emergency lights. “My brother went through an enormous amount of trouble to fake his death. I’m going to make sure he doesn't have to fake it a second time.”
