Chapter 7 - The Siege of Room 12
Inside Northwestern Memorial Hospital, horror had taken hold.
Alarm bells were screaming across the fifth floor. Sprinkler systems had been triggered on the floor below, sending a light mist of water dripping through the ceiling tiles. Hospital staff had locked themselves inside supply closets, while panicked nurses scrambled to shield patients.
Inside CICU Room 12, the room was bathed in the eerie red glow of emergency backup lights.
Brin sat upright in her bed, her breathing fast and shallow, her face pale with terror. She had Clara cradled tightly against her chest, wrapped inside her hospital gown, shielding the baby with her own body.
Outside the glass doors, the corridor was a warzone.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Gunfire echoed sharply through the tiled hall. Smoke from discharge filled the air, smelling bitterly of sulfur and hot metal.
Royce stood right outside Brin’s glass door, a bleeding wound on his left shoulder, firing his weapon down the hallway toward three cartel gunmen advancing behind heavy medical equipment carts.
“Hold the line!” Royce screamed to the two remaining Hale guards beside him. “Don't let them near Room 12!”
A cartel gunman stepped out from a doorway, raising an automatic rifle.
TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
The glass wall of Room 12 shattered into ten thousand glittering fragments, raining down onto the floor like cold diamonds.
Brin screamed, ducking down and wrapping her body entirely over Clara as glass showered over her bed. The baby began to cry frantically, terrified by the deafening noise.
“Shh, shh, mommy’s here, baby’s safe, mommy’s here!” Brin sobbed, tears pouring down her face as she pressed her cheek against Clara’s soft head.
A heavy boot stepped through the broken glass frame of the door.
A tall, broad-shouldered cartel hitman walked into the room, holding a heavy shotgun. His eyes were cold, scanning the room until they landed on the bed where Brin lay huddled over the child.
“Aurelio Salcedo sends his regards,” the hitman snarled, lifting the barrel of the shotgun and aiming it directly at Brin’s back.
Brin closed her eyes tightly. She squeezed Clara against her beating heart, using her last remaining strength to act as a human shield for her daughter.
I’m sorry, Clara, Brin thought, weeping softly. I love you... I love you so much...
BOOM!
A deafening shot shattered the air inside the room.
Brin braced for the tearing pain of bullet metal, but nothing hit her.
Instead, a heavy thud echoed across the floor, followed by the sound of glass crunching under heavy leather boots.
Slowly, terrifyingly, Brin opened her eyes and looked back over her shoulder.
The cartel hitman was lying flat on his back in the middle of the room, a neat, smoking hole punched through the center of his forehead.
Standing in the shattered frame of the doorway was Cormack Hale.
He looked like a vision straight out of hell. His tactical vest was covered in dust, his face smeared with soot and sweat, and his dark eyes burned with an unnatural, terrifying fury. In his hand, his Kimber .45 was raised, smoke curling lazily from the barrel.
Behind him, Viktor and four Hale enforcers swept through the corridor, systematically neutralizing the remaining cartel gunmen with terrifying, clinical speed.
Cormack dropped his gun into his holster, stepping over the fallen hitman, crunching through the broken glass until he reached the side of Brin’s bed.
“Cormack...” Brin sobbed, her strength completely vanishing as the adrenaline drained from her fragile body.
Cormack fell to his knees beside her bed. He gathered both Brin and Clara into his massive, powerful arms, pulling them tight against his chest, holding them as if he would never let go for as long as he lived.
“I’m here,” Cormack choked out, his voice cracking with immense emotion as he kissed Brin’s hair, her forehead, her cheeks. “I’m here, my sweet girl. You’re safe. I’ve got you. I’ve got both of you.”
Brin buried her face into the warm nook of his neck, weeping bitterly, while little Clara cooed softly between them, safe within the embrace of her mother and father.
Dr. Vance rushed into the room through the shattered door, accompanied by two brave nurses pushing a fresh transport gurney.
“Cormack!” Dr. Vance shouted, checking Brin’s vitals immediately. “We need to move them now! The lower floors are compromised, but the helipad on the roof is clear! We have a medical transport helicopter waiting!”
Cormack stood up, leaning down to carefully scoop Brin up into his arms, keeping her cradled against his chest while she held Clara securely in her lap.
“Lead the way, Richard,” Cormack commanded, his voice resolute.
Supported by a tactical squad of Hale enforcers, Cormack carried his family up the service stairwell, bursting out into the cold, crisp night air of the hospital helipad.
A massive, twin-engine medical helicopter was idling on the pad, its rotors whipping the air into a roaring gale, bright lights illuminating the landing zone.
Cormack stepped inside the warm cabin, gently placing Brin onto the soft leather medical bed. Nurses immediately moved in, securing Clara in a warm, portable bassinet beside her mother and connecting Brin to portable life-support monitors.
Cormack turned back toward the open helicopter door, looking out over the glittering skyline of Chicago.
In the far distance, toward the affluent northern suburb of Lake Forest, a massive red glow illuminated the clouds. Aurelio Salcedo’s estate was burning—Dominic had completed the job. The cartel war was over. The Salcedo empire in Chicago was dead.
Royce stood on the helipad outside, holding a arm sling over his wounded shoulder, looking up at Cormack.
“Where are you taking them, boss?” Royce called out over the roar of the helicopter blades.
Cormack looked back at Brin, who was holding Clara’s tiny hand, her green eyes looking up at him with a quiet, peaceful trust that he had thought he had lost forever.
“To the estate in Switzerland,” Cormack called back, a rare, beautiful smile breaking across his face. “We’re going home.”
The helicopter doors slid shut, sealing out the noise, the cold, and the bloody darkness of the city below.
As the helicopter lifted off into the starry night sky, rising high above the shadows of Chicago, Cormack sat beside Brin’s bed. He reached out, taking her soft hand in his right hand, and resting his left hand gently over Clara’s tiny head.
Brin looked up at him, a faint, lovely flush of color finally returning to her pale cheeks.
“Is it really over, Cormack?” she whispered softly.
May you like
Cormack leaned down, pressing a warm, slow, sweet kiss against her lips—a kiss filled with nine months of regret, love, and a promise for a lifetime of redemption.
“It’s over, my love,” Cormack promised softly against her lips. “The world can't touch us anymore.”
