Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the Past
The hallway was a gallery of horrors. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered, casting long, rhythmic shadows across the pale green walls. Water from the ceiling fire sprinklers was starting to drip, creating a thin, shimmering layer of moisture on the floor that smelled of rust and wet wool.
Lawrence led the way, his weapon sweeping the empty corridors. I walked behind him, my left hand holding Nora by the belt of her blue uniform to keep her shielded behind me, while my right hand held the Glock.
“The supply closet is thirty yards down, past the pediatric playroom,” Nora whispered, her breath hot against my shoulder. “But they’re going to be waiting. They know we have to get out of that room eventually.”
“Let them wait,” I muttered.
We reached the corner of the corridor. A sudden burst of automatic fire chipped the plaster wall near my head, showering us in sharp, burning debris. We retreated back into the recess of a patient alcove.
“The shooter is using a submachine gun,” Lawrence reported, his eyes cold. “He’s positioned behind the heavy steel security desk at the nurses’ station. We can’t flank him without exposing ourselves to open fire.”
I looked at Nora. Her face was pale, the blood from her forehead now drying into a dark crust, but her eyes remained remarkably focused. She wasn't looking at the shooters; she was looking at the ceiling.
“The maintenance vents,” she said, pointing to a metal grate directly above us. “They run straight through to the supply closet. It’s tight, but someone small can get through.”
“No,” I said immediately. “You’re not going up there.”
“Your son is going to die, Dominic,” she said, using my first name without a shred of the deference my men usually showed me. “I don't care about your mafia war. I care about the kid. I can get the kit and the tank, but you have to keep that shooter’s attention focused on this corner.”
I stared at her for a long second, searching her face for any sign of deception or hesitation. I found nothing but an unbreakable, stubborn resolve.
“Lawrence,” I said. “Give her your backup weapon.”
Lawrence reached into his vest, pulling out a compact Walther PPK, and handed it to Nora. She took it without flinching, checking the slide with a familiarity that proved her story about her past was true.
With a quick, athletic leap, Lawrence boosted Nora into the ceiling tiles. The metal grate creaked as she disappeared into the dark, dusty crawlspace above.
“Keep him busy,” her voice echoed softly from the darkness before she crawled away.
I stepped out of the alcove, firing three rapid shots toward the nurses’ station. The return fire was immediate and devastating, chewing through the wooden doors of the nearby patient rooms. Lawrence joined in, creating a wall of sound and lead that echoed through the empty ward like thunder.
For two minutes, the hallway was an absolute warzone.
Then, from the far end of the corridor, near the supply closet, a single, sharp gunshot rang out. It was followed by a wet gasp, and then silence.
“Dominic!” Nora’s voice called out from the dark hallway.
We rushed forward, weapons raised.
Nora was standing outside the door of the supply closet. At her feet lay the second shooter, a bullet hole precisely positioned between his eyes. In her left hand, she held a portable green oxygen cylinder and a plastic bag filled with sterile tubing.
But she wasn't looking at the dead man. She was staring at the wall opposite her.
The wall was covered in old, framed photographs of the hospital's founding benefactors. One photograph, larger than the others, showed a group of local politicians and businessmen cutting a ribbon at the opening of the new pediatric wing ten years ago.
May you like
Standing in the center of that photograph, smiling warmly beside a younger version of my own security chief, Lawrence Fuller, was a man I had buried with my own hands fifteen years ago.
My brother, Vincent.
