Chapter 10 - Blood on the Fourth Floor
The lobby of St. Jude’s was an echo chamber of gunfire and screams. Roman’s men moved with terrifying military precision, clearing the ground floor with brutal efficiency while Nora sprinted behind them, her heart in her throat. Every elevator was disabled, the power cables severed from the main junction box.
“Stairs!” Nora cried, pointing toward the emergency exit behind the reception desk.
Roman took the stairs two at a time, his breathing ragged, his hand pressed firmly against his bleeding side. Blood was beginning to seep through his black coat, but his pace never slowed. Marco and three mercenaries flanked him, checking every landing, clearing the corridors with short, controlled bursts.
On the fourth floor, the smell of ozone and cordite hung heavy in the air. The pediatric ward was dark, illuminated only by the rhythmic flashing of emergency backup lights. Medical monitors chimed erratically in deserted rooms where patients had been hurried into hiding.
At the end of the long hallway, outside room 402, stood Viktor Petrov.
He was an older man, silver-haired and impeccably dressed despite the gunfight raging around him. In his right hand, he held a stainless steel briefcase containing Mia’s transplant records. Standing directly beside him was Dr. Mercer, trembling as he held a syringe filled with clear fluid over a pediatric transport incubator.
“Stop right there, Vance,” Petrov called out, his voice smooth and devoid of fear. “One more step and the good doctor administers fifty milligrams of potassium chloride into your daughter's central line. Her heart stops in three seconds.”
Nora froze, a strangled cry catching in her throat. Through the glass window of room 402, she could see Mia’s tiny form beneath the sheets, pale as porcelain, hooked to the hissing mechanical ventilator.
Roman lowered his rifle barrel by half an inch, his eyes narrowing into slits. “You made a mistake coming here, Viktor.”
“Did I?” Petrov smiled, stepping closer to the incubator. “You’re bleeding to death through your coat, Roman. You gave your blood to a stranger’s child, and it made you weak.”
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“She’s not a stranger,” Roman whispered.
Before Petrov could process the words, a floor tile beneath Mercer’s feet exploded upward as a suppressed sniper round from the opposite rooftop punched straight through the fourth-floor exterior window.
