Chapter 3 - The Ghost of St. Catherine
Back at St. Catherine Medical Center, the storm outside had reached a crescendo, howling against the reinforced glass of the fourth-floor maternity ward like an army of tortured souls.
Inside Room 412, the silence was absolute.
Evelyn Pierce Caruso sat upright in her hospital bed, her back braced against stiff pillows, her eyes locked on the heavy oak door. In her arms, little Luke slept soundly, his chest rising and falling in a steady, reassuring rhythm. The oxygen mask had been removed an hour ago; the little fighter had proven his strength against the odds, drawing clean, unassisted breaths from the Philadelphia air.
A soft, electronic chime echoed from the hallway nurse’s station. Then, the rhythmic click-clack of rubber-soled shoes approached her door.
Evelyn’s hand slid slowly beneath the heavy wool blanket, closing around the cold, checkered steel of a Glock 19 her brother David had managed to smuggle past hospital security forty minutes prior, tucked inside a diaper bag.
She didn't flinch when the doorknob turned.
The lock held firm.
A soft, muffled curse drifted through the wood. Then came the metallic scratch of a master key sliding into the tumbler.
Click.
The door swung inward.
A woman in a crisp blue nursing uniform stepped into the dim light of the room. Her identification badge was clipped upside down, and her hands were tucked deep into the pockets of her oversized lab coat.
“Mrs. Caruso?” the nurse said, her voice dripping with a sickeningly sweet artificial warmth. “I’m here to check the baby’s vitals. There’s been a protocol update from the neonatal director.”
Evelyn didn't move. She kept the blanket pulled up to her chest, her fingers tightening around the grip of the pistol hidden beneath the folds.
“The neonatal director went home at midnight,” Evelyn said, her voice ice-cold. “And the night shift nurses don't wear perfume imported from Paris.”
The woman paused. The smile vanished from her face, replaced by a cold, hardened expression that belonged in a back-alley interrogation room rather than a hospital nursery.
“You’re making a mistake, sweetheart,” the woman hissed, her hand whipping out of her pocket with a sleek, silenced Walther PPK gleaming in the fluorescent light. “The child isn't part of this world anymore. Hand him over, and maybe you get to walk out of here with your legs intact.”
Before the assassin could level the barrel toward the bed, Evelyn threw the heavy blanket off her lap.
She didn't hesitate. She didn't scream for help.
Bang.
The gunshot sounded like a cannon in the small, enclosed room. The bullet smashed into the doorframe just inches from the assassin’s head, spraying splinters into her cheek and causing her to stumble sideways in shock.
Before the woman could recover her balance, Evelyn kicked off the hospital covers, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and fired a second round that caught the intruder squarely in the shoulder.
The woman shrieked, dropping her weapon as she crashed backward against the wall, sliding down into a heap of blue scrubs and spreading blood.
Evelyn stood up, her abdomen screaming in agony as the surgical stitches pulled against her muscles. Beads of cold sweat broke out across her forehead, but she didn't drop the gun. She walked unsteadily across the room, keeping the barrel leveled at the groaning assassin’s chest, and kicked the silenced pistol away across the floor.
“Tell Viktor Sloane,” Evelyn whispered, leaning over the wounded woman with eyes burning with dark, incandescent fury, “that if he ever sends another dog to my nursery, I won't aim for the shoulder next time.”
The elevator bell chimed down the hall. Heavy, frantic footsteps pounded toward Room 412.
Evelyn backed away, keeping her weapon raised, until the door burst open.
David Pierce stood in the doorway, a tactical vest over his dark suit, two armed security operatives flanking him. His eyes swept the room, taking in the bleeding assassin on the floor, the shattered doorframe, and Evelyn standing pale and resolute with a newborn baby clutched securely against her heart.
David let out a long, shuddering breath.
“Evelyn,” he said, rushing forward to wrap a steady arm around her shoulders. “Thank God. Are you hit?”
“I’m fine,” Evelyn said, her voice dropping as the adrenaline finally began to recede, leaving her shaking from head to toe. She looked down at Luke, who had stirred slightly at the sound of the gunshot but had drifted right back to sleep. “The car ready?”
“Waiting in the underground ambulance bay,” David said grimly. “And we have a problem. Intelligence just intercepted a distress signal from Dominic’s suite at the Bellmont. The Camden Outfit hit him twenty minutes ago. He and Bianca Vale barely made it out alive.”
May you like
Evelyn’s expression hardened into stone.
“Let him run,” she said, walking toward the private exit with her brother shielding her flanks. “If Dominic wants to survive tonight, he’s going to have to earn his way back to us.”
