Chapter 6 - The Ghost in the House
The storm had not abated by the time Julian’s armored SUV pulled back through the wrought-iron gates of Sterling Manor. The police cruisers had departed, having transported Veronica to the downtown detention facility for processing. The massive estate was dark, save for the faint yellow glow of the exterior floodlights fighting against the torrential downpour.
Inside the hospital room, the hours dragged on like an eternity. Eleanor had drifted into a deep, healing sleep under the watchful eye of the cardiac nurses. I sat in the armchair beside her, my senses hyper-attuned to every creak of the floorboards outside the door.
My phone buzzed on the small side table. It was a text message from Julian:
*Found the false bottom. The flash drive is in my possession. Richard’s financial trail is completely exposed. Returning to the hospital now.*
A massive weight lifted from my chest. I closed my eyes and breathed a quiet prayer of thanks. It was over. The evidence was secured, Veronica was locked in a holding cell, and Richard’s corporate ambush was dead in the water.
Or so I thought.
Suddenly, the fluorescent lights overhead flickered violently, buzzed with an angry electrical hum, and died.
The entire ICU floor plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness.
A heartbeat later, the emergency backup generators roared to life, casting the hallway in an eerie, sickly red emergency glow. But the heart monitors did not reboot immediately; they let out a synchronized, low-frequency alarm before their internal batteries took over.
Outside in the corridor, there was no sound of nurses rushing to check on patients. No hurried footsteps.
Only a sickening, muffled *THUD*.
Followed by the sound of a heavy body sliding down against the drywall.
My blood ran instantly cold. I sprang up from the chair, every nerve ending in my body screaming in warning. I moved quietly toward the heavy glass door of the room, peeling back the privacy curtain by a fraction of an inch to peer into the red-lit hallway.
What I saw made the breath catch in my throat.
Both of Julian’s elite security guards were sprawled unconscious on the linoleum floor. Standing over them were two men dressed in black tactical gear, their faces obscured by ballistic masks. One of them held a suppressed firearm, while the other held a handheld electronic signal jammer.
And behind them, stepping calmly out of the service elevator with the leisurely arrogance of a man strolling through a country club, was a man whose features were horrifyingly familiar.
He had the same piercing slate-gray eyes as Julian, the same sharp jawline, but his face was weathered by bitterness, a cruel smirk twisted onto his thin lips.
Richard Sterling.
He hadn't fled to Europe. He hadn't stayed hidden behind offshore shell companies. He had been in the city the entire time, waiting for Veronica to complete the hit. And the moment he realized the police had taken his operative, he had activated his contingency plan.
“Check the rooms,” Richard’s voice echoed down the sterile hallway, cold, cultured, and devoid of humanity. “Find the old woman. Finish what Victoria couldn't, and take out the maid if she’s in there. I want no witnesses leaving this floor alive before we pull the fire alarm and vanish into the storm.”
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. My mind raced in blind panic. The doors locked from the inside, but a single bullet through the electronic keypad would disable the mag-lock instantly. There was no back exit from this private ICU suite—only the window, four stories above a concrete courtyard.
I looked back at the bed. Eleanor was still asleep, vulnerable, hooked to IV lines and oxygen tubes. If they entered this room, she wouldn't stand a chance.
I had no weapon. No silver tray. No security backup.
All I had was the sterile medical equipment inside the room.
My eyes landed on the tall, stainless-steel medical oxygen tank secured to the wall bracket near the head of the bed, connected by a high-pressure rubber hose to the wall regulator. Beside it was a stainless-steel medical tray holding scalpels, heavy trauma shears, and several pressurized aerosol cans of medical disinfectant.
I remembered the chemistry lessons from my nursing school days before my father fell ill and I had to drop out to work as a housekeeper.
*Pressurized oxygen. Flammable aerosol. High pressure.*
I moved silently across the room. I carefully disconnected the secondary regulator from the spare forty-pound oxygen tank, turning the primary valve slightly until a furious, invisible stream of pure oxygen hissed into the enclosed space near the entryway.
I picked up the heavy trauma shears in my right hand and a large, full can of alcohol-based surgical prep spray in my left.
Then, I slipped behind the heavy oak door just as the electronic lock on the outside chimed.
*BEEP.*
The door handle slowly turned.
The heavy door was pushed inward, and the first masked mercenary stepped into the darkened room, his suppressed pistol raised in the low-ready position, sweeping the bed.
“Target is in the bed,” the mercenary whispered into his comm-link.
He never finished the sentence.
May you like
With all the strength in my body, I stepped out from behind the door and jammed the sharp, heavy blades of the trauma shears deep into the soft tissue of his neck, right above the collarbone of his tactical vest.
***
