Chapter 4 - The Basement Protocol
The basement corridor of St. Gabriel Hospital was a labyrinth of concrete walls, yellow steam pipes, and roaring industrial generators. It was completely empty at 1:00 AM.
Hector Ruiz—a tall, heavily tattooed man with a scar running from his lip to his ear—walked briskly down the hallway, flanked by three men in dark leather jackets.
"Vance wants us to leave a package in the kid's room," Hector muttered to his men, pulling a heavy manila envelope from his jacket. "A picture of the girl asleep, with a note telling Cross to hand over the San Pedro leases by Friday, or the next package will be a bomb."
"Is Cross even here?" one of his men asked nervously, looking up at the buzzing fluorescent lights.
"He's here," Hector smirked. "His driver's car is parked outside. The big man is soft now. Got a dying brat upstairs—"
Hector stopped.
At the end of the long concrete corridor, standing right beneath a flickering fluorescent light, was Nolan Cross.
He stood alone. No suit jacket. His sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His broad chest moving with slow, steady breaths. In his right hand, he held a heavy iron tire iron he had grabbed from the maintenance closet.
"Ruiz," Nolan said. His voice echoed through the concrete hallway like thunder.
Hector’s eyes widened in surprise, but his shock quickly turned into a cruel, arrogant sneer. He reached toward his belt, where a 9mm pistol was tucked into his waistband. "Cross! You saved us a trip upstairs—"
Nolan moved with a terrifying, explosive speed that no thirty-eight-year-old executive should have possessed.
Before Hector could draw his weapon, Nolan closed the twenty-foot gap between them. He swung the iron rod with brutal, terrifying precision.
CRACK.
The iron rod struck Hector’s right wrist, shattering the bone instantly. Hector let out a blood-curdling scream as his gun clattered to the concrete floor.
The second man pulled a knife, lunging at Nolan’s throat. Nolan stepped inside the blade's reach, grabbed the man's forearm, twisted it until the elbow popped out of its socket, and slammed his head violently against the concrete wall. The man dropped instantly, unconscious.
The third man turned to run, but Grant stepped out from a side doorway, striking him across the jaw with the heavy butt of a tactical flashlight. The man crumpled to the floor like a sack of bricks.
Within forty-five seconds, the fight was over. Three of Vance’s best enforcers lay broken and unconscious on the concrete floor.
Hector lay on his back, clutching his shattered wrist, gasping for air, tears of agony streaming down his face.
Nolan stepped forward, placing his heavy leather shoe squarely on Hector’s throat. He leaned down, pressing just enough weight to cut off the man's air supply.
"Look at me, Hector," Nolan commanded softly.
Hector looked up, his eyes wide with sheer, unadulterated terror. He didn't see a businessman. He didn't see a logistics executive. He saw a devil.
"Tell Julian Vance," Nolan whispered, leaning in so close his suit brushed Hector’s face, "that if he or any of his people ever come within five miles of this hospital again... I will not stop at his enforcers. I will hunt down every member of his family, every partner in his firm, and every shell company he owns. I will burn his world to ash while he watches."
Nolan pressed his shoe down harder for three seconds until Hector’s eyes began to roll back, then lifted his foot.
Hector choked violently, gasping for air. "Okay! Okay! Jesus Christ, Cross! We're gone! We're gone!"
"Grant," Nolan said, wiping a drop of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
"Yes, boss?"
"Load them into their SUVs. Drive them to Julian Vance's estate in Hidden Hills and dump them on his front lawn."
"Understood, boss."
Nolan tossed the iron rod onto the floor. It clattered loudly against the concrete.
He walked over to the stainless-steel sink near the laundry chutes, turned on the cold water, and washed his hands thoroughly. He washed away the dust, the sweat, and the faint specks of blood that had sprayed onto his knuckles.
He pulled a clean paper towel from the dispenser, dried his hands carefully, and checked his reflection in the small mirror above the sink.
His face was calm again. Controlled. Immutable.
May you like
He adjusted his collar, rolled his sleeves back down, and carefully reattached the yellow smiley-face sticker to his dress cuff.
Then he walked back to the elevator to return to his daughter.
