Chapter 9 - Extraction
The concussive force of the Sikorsky descending created an artificial hurricane across the rooftop. Rain whipped sideways in stinging sheets, pushing Elena to her knees. Dante braced himself against the wind, his tailored coat flapping wildly as the heavy black bird hovered four feet above the wet concrete of the helipad, its side door sliding open with a mechanical clatter.
Two operatives in sterile black tactical gear jumped down onto the tarmac, assault rifles raised, establishing an immediate security perimeter.
""Go! Move to the cabin!"" Dante shouted to Elena, hauling her up by her arm and thrusting her toward the open bay of the aircraft.
Salvatore’s surviving men on the roof opened fire, muzzle flashes strobing against the rainy gloom. The operatives returned fire with disciplined, suppressed bursts, keeping the access doors pinned down. Dante moved backward toward the helicopter, his arm wrapped tight around Paige, who was now screaming at the top of her lungs, terrified by the deafening roar of the rotors.
Elena scrambled into the helicopter, pulled inside by a flight medic in tactical fatigues. Dante leaped up onto the skid, stepping into the cabin just as a round sparked off the helicopter's armored doorframe.
""We’re clear! Lift off! Lift off!"" the crew chief shouted through his headset, slamming the side door shut and locking the heavy steel latch.
The helicopter banked violently to the left, pulling away from the hospital tower and surging up into the protective shroud of the storm clouds. The violent vibrations smoothed out into a steady hum. Inside the cabin, the red interior cabin lights illuminated the small, exhausted group.
The flight medic immediately approached Dante, holding out a sterile warming blanket and a pediatric diagnostic kit. ""Sir, let me take her. We need to stabilize her temperature and check the IV line.""
Dante stood motionless in the center of the cabin. His knuckles were white, locked around the bundle in his arms. His face was pale, his eyes wide, pupils dilated in an expression of raw, unyielding territorial fury. For three long seconds, he couldn't loosen his fingers. His mind was still trapped on the hospital floor, listening to the flatline of the heart monitor.
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""Dante,"" Elena said softly, stepping between him and the medic. She placed her trembling hands over his tattooed fingers. ""It's okay. Let them help her. Look at me... she's safe.""
Slowly, almost painfully, Dante released his grip. The medic took the baby, laying her gently onto the fold-down examination bench. Dante staggered back against the bulkhead, sliding down until he hit the metal floor, his hands dangling between his knees, covered in plaster dust, soot, and drying blood.
