Chapter 3 - Beneath the Penthouse
The blast from Roman’s hidden sidearm answered before the attacker could clear the smoke. The heavy hollow-point round took the hitman in the chest plate, slamming him backward into the corridor wall. Roman didn't waste another second. He dragged Nora toward the concealed mirrored panel inside his walk-in wardrobe, his left arm wrapped tight across his torn gut.
“Scan,” he ordered hoarsely, pressing his face to a concealed biometric lens behind a display of tailored suits.
The mechanism chimed green. A heavy steel door slid back without a whisper, revealing a narrow freight lift built into the concrete core of the skyscraper. Marco tumbled in behind them, a smoking weapon in hand and a fresh bullet graze bleeding through his dark suit jacket. The steel door sealed shut just as a volley of rounds chewed through the mahogany cabinetry outside.
Inside the descending cage, the only light came from an amber emergency diode. Nora dropped to her knees, pulling a roll of heavy adhesive tape and hemostatic gauze from her pocket kit. “Hold still,” she breathed, tearing the packaging with her teeth. “If you pass out from hypovolemic shock, we won't make it to the ground floor.”
Roman leaned his head back against the steel wall, chest heaving. Sweat drenched his temples, making his dark beard glisten. “You're wasted in an oncology ward, little bird. Most people would have curled into a ball and screamed.”
“I watch five-year-olds endure bone marrow aspirations without crying,” she said, applying brutal, unforgiving pressure to the gaping wound until Roman groaned through his teeth. “A few men with guns don't impress me. Now hold this gauze.”
Marco watched the floor indicator dropping rapidly through the penthouse levels toward sub-basement three. “The team at the garage isn’t responding, Boss. Petrov planned this clean. He knew the maintenance codes.”
“Because we have a rat at the council table,” Roman rasped, his eyes fixing on Nora as her fingers worked cleanly, swiftly binding the wound. “Who gave Petrov your child’s records, Nora? An oncology database isn't street gossip.”
Nora froze, the tape caught between her fingers. “Dr. Mercer. My daughter’s lead hematologist. He said a private benefactor was reviewing her case for a clinical trial.”
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Roman’s eyes darkened into black ice. “Mercer isn't a benefactor. He’s Petrov’s personal butcher. And you just delivered yourself into the middle of a harvest.”
The lift ground to a violent halt between floors, the cables groaning under sudden emergency brakes.
