Chapter 8 - The Silver Scalpel
""You won't shoot me, Tom,"" Eleanor said, keeping her voice as steady as steel, though her knees threatened to buckle beneath her. ""The gunshot will bring every armed security guard from the ground floor within sixty seconds.""
""Nobody is coming, Eleanor,"" Cole said coldly. ""I cleared the fifth floor ten minutes ago under the pretext of a VIP security threat. It’s just us.""
Cole took a step forward, raising his weapon higher. In that half-second of shifting momentum, Clara made her move. Ignoring the agonizing tear in her abdomen, she lunged sideways off the mattress, grabbing a stainless-steel surgical tray from the bedside cart and hurling it violently into Cole’s face.
Instruments, iodine, and sterile gauze exploded across the room. The heavy metal tray struck Cole across the bridge of his nose with a sickening crunch. His gun discharged with a deafening roar, the bullet shattering the bedside vitals monitor into a shower of sparks and smoking plastic.
Cole stumbled backward, blinded by his own blood, cursing violently.
Eleanor didn't hesitate. She snatched a heavy, chrome intravenous stand and swung it with the full momentum of her body, striking the sheriff across the side of his skull. Cole collapsed heavily against the tiled floor, his handgun sliding across the linoleum until it bumped against Clara’s bare foot.
Clara scooped up the weapon, her hands shaking uncontrollably, her eyes wide with animal fury. She aimed it squarely at the sheriff’s chest.
""Don't,"" Eleanor commanded softly, kneeling beside the gasping girl. ""We need him alive. He’s going to tell us where Arthur is hiding.""
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Before Clara could lower the gun, the radio on Cole’s utility belt crackled to life with static.
“Tom, this is Julian. It’s done. We have the Thorne boy. Bring the girl to the docks now, or Lucas dies before dawn.”
