Chapter 2 - Blood on the Linoleum
The handle moved down with a slow, deliberate creak.
In my line of work, there are two types of killers: the ones who blow the door off its hinges with explosive charges to overwhelm you with shock, and the ones who open the door like a guest because they think you don't know they're standing there.
Victor Vane’s men were the second kind. They were arrogant. They thought a man visiting his ex-wife in a hospital room was a soft target, caught with his pants down and his guard in the dust.
They didn't know Cassian Drake.
The moment the latch cleared the strike plate, I didn't wait for the door to swing inward. I charged forward, slamming my shoulder into the heavy oak paneling with the full force of my six-foot-three frame.
BANG.
The door cracked back against the face of the man on the other side. A wet crunch echoed through the doorway as his nose shattered into his brain cavity. Before his partner behind him could raise his suppressed submachine gun, I reached through the gap, grabbed the tactical vest of the falling operative, and yanked him into the room as a human shield.
Pfft-pfft-pfft!
Three suppressed rounds slammed into the dead man’s back, kicking dust and synthetic fiber into the air.
Using the body’s momentum, I fired two precise shots round the edge of the doorframe into the hallway.
THUD. THUD.
The heavy, unsuppressed roar of my .45 caliber Kimber tore through the quiet hospital wing like a thunderclap. The first bullet hit the shooter in the sternum, punching through his body armor; the second caught him cleanly under the chin, lifting him off his feet and dropping him onto the slick linoleum floor.
Silence returned to the corridor, save for the flickering hum of a damaged fluorescent light fixture overhead.
I kicked the second body clear of the doorway and swept the hall left and right. Two men down. Both wore civilian tactical gear—no badges, no logos, but the teardrop tattoo on the thumb of the lead shooter confirmed my fears.
Vane’s Black-Guard unit.
"Cassian!" Elena’s voice was a ragged sob from the bed.
I backed into the room, re-engaging the manual latch on the damaged door, though it was now splattered with dark crimson blood. "They were scouts. The main unit will be coming up through the service elevators now that they’ve heard gunfire."
I walked over to the bed, my suit coat stained with powder burn and drywall dust. I reached down with my left hand and scooped up the stack of unread letters from the bedside table, stuffing them into my inner coat pocket, right next to my heart.
"What are you doing?" she asked, her eyes wild with panic.
"Taking what’s mine," I said quietly, looking down at her. "All of it. The truth, the letters, and you."
"Cassian, I can barely walk," she gasped, her pale face slick with cold sweat. "I had a C-section six hours ago. My legs... I can't run."
I didn't answer with words. I holstered my weapon, stepped to the side of the bed, and carefully gathered the heavy hospital blanket around the twins, securing them into a tight, protective cocoon against her chest. Then, without a moment's hesitation, I reached beneath her knees and lower back and lifted her off the bed into my arms.
Elena let out a sharp gasp of pain, her teeth sinking into her lower lip to keep from screaming as her abdominal sutures stretched.
"Hold them tight," I ordered, my eyes locked on hers. "If you drop them, my life ends right here on this floor. Do you understand me?"
"I've got them," she choked out, her arms locking like iron around our children. "I've got them, Cassian."
Carrying a post-op mother and two infants while holding a loaded firearm was a tactical nightmare that no military manual could prepare a man for. But muscle memory and pure, unadulterated adrenaline took over. I leaned back slightly to counterbalance her weight, my right hand keeping the Kimber pressed against her side, ready to fire from the hip.
I kicked open the room door and stepped into the blood-stained corridor just as the red emergency lights began to flash along the ceiling. A high-pitched alarm began to blare: SECURITY BREACH. SECTOR THREE. LOCKDOWN IN PROGRESS.
"Which way?" Elena whispered, her face buried in the crook of my neck, smelling the scent of cedar, gunsmoke, and my expensive cologne.
"West wing stairwell," I replied, moving in a fast, low-impact stride. "Lev should be breaking through the third-floor fire door right about—"
The double doors at the end of the hall exploded open.
A man in a dark grey tactical suit stepped out, carrying an short-barreled assault rifle. He didn't hesitate. He raised the weapon, targeting my chest.
Before I could even adjust my grip to fire, a heavy black boot kicked through the glass of the window behind him.
Lev descended like a gargoyle from the roof line, suspended by a high-tension tactical cable. He swung through the reinforced glass, landed on the shooter's shoulders, and brought him down in a tangle of shattered safety glass and metal. A quick, brutal twist of Lev’s wrist, and the threat was neutralized.
Lev stood up, wiping blood from his cheek, his heavy shotgun resting comfortably against his forearm. He looked at me, then his eyes dropped to the woman in my arms and the two small pink blankets tucked against her chest.
The grizzled veteran, who had served my father before me and had watched me bury three rival families, blinked twice.
"Boss," Lev said, his voice as dry as parchment. "You brought a full extraction team for a baby shower?"
"Shut up, Lev," I growled, stepping over the broken glass. "Where is Dante?"
"Clearing the basement level with the heavy squad. The perimeter is sealed. Victor Vane’s SUV is currently upside down in the street outside, burning."
I paused, my heart slamming against my ribcage. "Did you catch Victor?"
Lev’s face went dark. "No. The snake wasn't in the car. It was a remote-controlled decoy to draw our snipers out. Victor’s main force is heading for your main estate in the hills right now. He thinks you're still there."
May you like
A cold, dark smile spread across my face—the kind of smile that usually presaged a massacre.
"Then Victor is about to find an empty house," I said, looking down at Elena, who was fading fast, her head resting heavily against my collarbone from exhaustion and shock. "And I am about to show him what happens when you try to hunt a man who finally has something worth dying for."
