Chapter 4 - The Freight Elevator
The fifth-floor corridor looked like a warzone illuminated only by the rhythmic, red strobing of the emergency exit signs.
Four of Romano’s bodyguards lay dead along the hallway, alongside three men in grey tactical gear. The smell of cordite, blood, and ozone was thick enough to taste.
Alessandro walked ahead of us, his tall, broad frame hunched slightly to protect his chest wound, but his gun remained level, sweeping every door frame and alcove with practiced efficiency. I followed three paces behind, clutching Logan tightly against my shoulder, my eyes darting toward every shadow.
“Keep your feet quiet,” Alessandro instructed softly as we reached the service bank at the rear of the floor. “They’ll have a man monitoring the central stairwell. We take the hydraulic freight elevator. It operates on a secondary battery system separate from the main grid.”
He used the butt of his submachine gun to smash the plastic cover off the emergency manual control box beside the silver elevator doors. He reached inside, grabbed a heavy brass lever, and yanked it downward.
With a deep, groaning sound of heavy steel cables and hydraulic fluid, the massive freight elevator doors slid open.
Inside, the elevator was industrial and bare—unfinished plywood walls, exposed steel girders, and a single flickering yellow bulb hanging from a ceiling cable.
We stepped inside. Alessandro immediately pulled the manual gate shut and engaged the mechanical lever, sending the platform dropping into the dark shaft with a heavy, stomach-churning plunge.
As the elevator descended past the fourth and third floors, I leaned my head against the plywood wall, trying to stop my hands from shaking.
“Why did you come back?” I asked, staring at the back of Alessandro’s head. “In the trauma suite... you were dead. The doctors said time of death.”
Alessandro didn't turn around, his eyes fixed on the indicator numbers glowing faintly as we passed each floor.
“My heart stopped because my body was in profound hemorrhagic shock,” he said quietly. “The human mind can hold onto life through pure willpower if the motive is strong enough. When your son laid his hands on my chest... when he put that bear under my arm... something shifted.”
He paused, his shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch.
“I had a son once, Catherine,” he murmured. “He would have been six years old this year. Vanguard killed him in a drive-by shooting in Annapolis three years ago while trying to force me to sign over my shipping terminals.”
A knot tightened in my throat. “I’m sorry.”
“Don't be sorry,” Alessandro growled, his voice hardening back into iron. “Be angry. Anger keeps you alive. Sorrow makes you slow.”
The elevator jolted to a heavy halt at the sub-basement level—the lowest floor of the hospital complex, two levels beneath the parking garage.
The doors creaked open to reveal a narrow, low-ceilinged brick corridor lined with rusted steam pipes, thick bundles of black electrical cables, and puddle-filled concrete floors. The air was cold, damp, and smelled of wet coal and old river mud.
“This way,” Alessandro said, stepping out into the dark tunnel.
We moved quickly through the labyrinth of brick archways. The noise of the hospital above vanished completely, replaced by the rhythmic dripping of water and the heavy crunch of our shoes against grit.
After three hundred yards, the brick tunnel ended at a reinforced steel door secured with a heavy iron wheel latch.
Alessandro stepped up to the wheel, grabbing it with both hands. He grunted in pain as he exerted pressure, his face turning pale in the dim light, his bandages soaking through with a fresh layer of dark crimson.
“Let me help,” I said, stepping forward, setting Logan down on his feet for a second.
Together, we grabbed the cold iron wheel and threw our weight against it.
CLANK. CRACK.
The old gears inside the door mechanism groaned and gave way. The heavy steel door swung inward, revealing a damp, concrete ramp leading up to an abandoned auto repair garage at street level.
Parked inside the darkened garage, sitting beneath a layer of dust and old tire racks, was a matte-black armored SUV with blacked-out windows and state plates that belonged to a non-existent corporate fleet.
Beside the driver’s door stood a man in his late fifties wearing a dark trench coat, his hair silver at the temples, holding a suppressed pistol at his side.
When he saw us emerge from the tunnel, he froze, his jaw dropping in absolute disbelief.
“Alessandro?” the man gasped, his voice trembling. “Jesus... Mary... Joseph... the radio report said you were dead on the table!”
“Reports of my death were exaggerated, Frank,” Alessandro rasped, leaning heavily against the side of the SUV. “Is the safehouse in Catoctin ready?”
“It’s ready,” Frank said, instantly opening the rear door of the vehicle. “We’ve got full medical supplies, satellite comms, and six men from the North Baltimore crew holding the perimeter.”
Frank’s eyes shifted toward me and Logan. His brows pulled together in deep confusion. “Who are they?”
Alessandro looked at me, his eyes dark and unreadable in the shadows of the garage.
“This is Catherine Winters,” Alessandro announced. “And her son, Logan.”
May you like
Frank went completely pale. “David’s wife?”
“Yes,” Alessandro said, sliding into the leather rear seat of the SUV, pulling his submachine gun across his lap. “Get us out of the city, Frank. Before Vanguard realizes we didn't die in that room.”
