Chapter 5 - The Tactical Extraction
The voice of Marcus Vance over the satellite phone was so loud that Claire could hear his frantic relief from two feet away. "Nicholas! Oh my god, boss! Where are you? The doctors said—"
"The doctors are liars," Nicholas cut him off, his voice flat and authoritative. "Caldwell is a Marcone rat. I’m alive. I’m in the sub-basement of the abandoned east wing. I have a nurse with me—Claire Jenkins. She saved my life. She is under my personal protection. If a single hair on her head is touched by anyone, I’ll bury this city."
Nicholas glanced up at Claire, his eyes softening for a brief second before returning to his tactical tone. "Listen to me carefully, Marcus. Do not bring the main crew down here. The police radios are being monitored by the Marcones. I need a clean extraction. Tell Johnny to bring the private medical van to the old laundry loading dock on the east side. Trigger the hospital’s fire alarm system on the west wing to draw the police away. You have five minutes."
He hung up the phone and looked at Claire. "Can you walk me out of here, Claire?"
"You can't walk, Nicholas," Claire said, already moving to disconnect the monitor leads. "But the gurney has wheels. I’ll guide you to the laundry dock. But after that... I can't go with you. I have a shift... I have a life here."
Nicholas reached out, his large, warm hand catching her wrist again, but this time his grip was gentle, almost tender. "Claire, look at me. The moment I leave this hospital, Caldwell will make sure you take the fall for everything. The Marcones will find out you saved the man who controls their territory, and they will target you to get to me. Your life here ended the moment you stole me from that trauma bay. You come with me, or you die here. Those are your only two options."
Claire felt a cold dread settle in her stomach. She knew he was right. She had defied strict orders, stolen a high-profile patient, and exposed a corporate medical conspiracy. There was no going back to her quiet life of charting and night shifts.
"Alright," Claire said, her voice trembling slightly but her resolve remaining firm. "I’m coming. Let’s get you out of here."
Two minutes later, the high-pitched, deafening wail of the hospital's fire alarms began to echo through the corridors. Red strobe lights flashed against the concrete walls of the basement. Above them, the sounds of hundreds of patients and staff evacuating toward the west parking lot created the perfect distraction.
Claire pushed the gurney down the long, dark corridor toward the laundry loading dock. The air grew warmer as they approached the exit. She threw open the heavy metal double doors, and the cold, gray afternoon air of Chicago hit her face, accompanied by the heavy roar of the pouring rain.
A sleek, black Mercedes sprinter van—fitted inside like a high-tech mobile ICU unit—was idling at the dock. The back doors flew open, and Marcus Vance stepped out, his eyes widening as he saw his brother alive.
"Nicholas!" Marcus cried out, rushing forward to lift the gurney into the van with the help of another armed enforcer.
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"Get her in," Nicholas ordered, pointing to Claire.
Before Claire could even process the transition, she was pulled into the back of the luxurious, warm van. The doors slammed shut, plunging them into absolute security, and the vehicle tore away from Chicago General Hospital, leaving the sirens and the corruption behind them in the rain.
