Chapter 7 - The Bloodline War
The mercenary let out a choked, wet gurgle as the heavy trauma shears severed muscle and vein. He stumbled forward, dropping his suppressed firearm onto the linoleum floor.
Before he could recover his balance or cry out to his partner, I grabbed the aerosol can of surgical disinfectant and sprayed the pressurized alcohol directly into his exposed eyes and open neck wound. The chemical agony sent him crashing sideways into an intravenous stand, sending metal clattering across the floor.
“Victor? What’s happening in there?” Richard’s voice barked from the corridor.
The second mercenary appeared in the doorway, his weapon raised, his eyes widening behind his ballistic mask as he saw his partner writhing on the floor in a pool of dark blood.
He swung the barrel of his rifle directly toward my chest.
*THWIP-THWIP!*
Two silenced rounds punched through the drywall mere inches from my ear, showering my face in plaster dust. I dove behind the steel medical cart, kicking it with all my might toward the doorway. The cart slammed into his shins, knocking him off balance.
At that exact second, Eleanor woke up.
She took in the scene of blood, gunfire, and chaos in a single heartbeat. Despite her age, despite the lingering poison in her veins, the Sterling bloodline was forged in ruthlessness. She didn't scream. She didn't cower.
Eleanor reached up with her uninjured hand, grabbed the primary emergency shut-off valve of the main wall-mounted oxygen line, and yanked it with every ounce of strength she possessed.
The line ruptured with an explosive, deafening roar.
Thousands of pounds of pressurized pure oxygen blasted outward into the room, creating an atmospheric hurricane that swept papers, plastic trays, and medical equipment into a violent vortex. The sudden, violent drop in air pressure and the roar of the gas disoriented the second gunman completely.
“Get out of my way!” a furious voice snarled from the hallway.
Richard Sterling stepped through the doorway, a chrome-plated revolver in his hand, his eyes burning with maniacal, desperate rage. He shoved his surviving mercenary aside, his gaze locking onto his elderly stepmother.
“You should have died five years ago, Eleanor!” Richard screamed over the howling roar of the escaping oxygen. He raised his revolver, aiming it squarely between her eyes. “You took everything from me! You gave Arthur’s company to your bastard son, and now you’re going to pay for it!”
“RICHARD!”
A voice like rolling thunder tore through the hallway behind them.
Richard’s head jerked around.
Julian was standing in the corridor. His trench coat was soaked, his eyes glowing with an ancient, murderous fury. He held no firearm. He had discarded his weapon after sprinting up four flights of stairs when the elevator banks were cut.
He didn't need a gun.
Julian moved with the terrifying speed of a freight train. Before the surviving masked gunman could raise his weapon, Julian closed the distance, grabbed the man’s tactical helmet with both hands, and slammed his head with bone-crushing force against the concrete doorframe. The mercenary’s body went limp, collapsing instantly.
Richard’s eyes widened in sheer horror. He spun his revolver away from Eleanor, aiming it at his approaching brother.
“Julian, stop! I’ll blow your brains out!” Richard shrieked, his finger tightening on the trigger.
“JULIAN, NO!” I screamed, throwing myself forward from behind the steel cart.
*BANG!*
The revolver shot was deafening inside the enclosed, oxygen-rich room. The muzzle flash was an explosive flare of orange fire that ignited the localized pocket of leaking gas, creating a brief, violent fireball that blew the room’s privacy glass outward into the hallway.
The concussion knocked me flat against the floor. My ears rang with an agonizing, high-pitched squeal. The room filled with thick, black smoke and the bitter stench of scorched linoleum.
Through the haze of smoke, I coughed violently, dragging myself across the floor toward the bed. “Eleanor! Eleanor!”
“I’m here... Clara, look out!” Eleanor wheezed through the smoke.
I turned my head.
Julian had not been hit. The muzzle flash had blinded Richard for a crucial millisecond, sending the heavy-caliber bullet harmlessly into the ceiling concrete.
Julian had Richard pinned against the opposite wall. His large, powerful hands were wrapped tightly around Richard’s throat, lifting his older half-brother three inches off the floor.
Richard was kicking frantically, his face turning a deep, suffocating purple. The chrome revolver had fallen from his grip, spinning across the floor until it tapped against the toe of my shoe.
“You tried to poison my mother,” Julian growled, his voice a low, guttural vibration of pure hatred. His knuckles were white, his biceps bulging through the torn fabric of his soaked suit jacket. “You sent a murderous whore into my house. You hired mercenaries to execute an old woman in an ICU bed. Look at me, Richard. Look at your brother!”
Richard clawed desperately at Julian’s wrists, his eyes bulging, his tongue protruding as his airway was completely crushed. “J-Julian... mercy... we’re... brothers...”
“My brother died five years ago,” Julian whispered into his ear.
Julian drew back his right fist, prepared to crush Richard’s skull against the concrete wall—a blow that would have undoubtedly ended his brother's life on the spot.
“Julian! Stop!”
It was my voice. I was standing now, holding the dropped chrome revolver with both hands, pointing it toward the floor, my eyes pleading with him through the drifting smoke.
Julian froze. His fist hovered inches from Richard’s battered face.
“Don't do it, Julian,” I said, my voice shaking with emotion. “If you kill him, you become the monster he wanted you to be. You go to prison for murder. You leave your mother alone. He isn't worth your soul. Let the law destroy him.”
Julian didn't move for three agonizing seconds. The only sound in the room was the heavy, ragged breathing of two broken brothers, surrounded by fire and smoke.
Slowly, Julian’s fingers loosened.
Richard crashed to the floor like a sack of stones, gasping and retching for air, clutching his bruised throat, weeping in pathetic, humiliating defeat.
Down the hallway, the loud, booming commands of the city’s SWAT team echoed through the floor. “POLICE! NOBODY MOVE! WEAPONS ON THE GROUND!”
Dozens of heavily armed officers flooded into the room, their rifle-mounted lights cutting through the smoke. Detective Hayes led the charge, his gun drawn, stopping dead in his tracks as he surveyed the carnage.
Julian stood tall, stepping over his ruined brother, and walked directly toward me. Without a word, he gently took the heavy revolver from my trembling hands, set it onto a clean tray, and pulled me into his arms.
May you like
His embrace was warm, solid, and protective. As I pressed my face against his damp chest, feeling the wild, rapid pounding of his heart, I finally let the tears fall.
***
