Chapter 8 - The Price of Protection
The heavy fire doors at the end of the fourth-floor corridor burst inward with a deafening screech of tearing metal.
Flash-bang grenades tumbled across the linoleum, exploding in blinding flashes of white phosphorus and concussive thunder.
BANG! BANG!
The concussive shockwave shattered the fluorescent light tubes along the ceiling, raining glass down like sharp hail. But Dante’s men were veterans of urban warfare; they had already turned their faces away, anticipating the breach.
“CONTACT!” Marco roared.
The corridor erupted into a hellscape of deafening gunfire.
Suppressed automatic rounds chewed through the plaster walls, spitting drywall dust and fiberglass insulation into the air. Dante’s lead guard dropped to one knee, laying down a disciplined, devastating stream of fire down the narrow hallway. The first two mercs crossing the threshold were ripped apart by heavy caliber rounds, their tactical vests shredded as they collapsed backward into the stairwell.
Inside Room 412, Clara dropped to her knees beside her mother’s bed.
The sound was apocalyptic. The concussive thuds of high-caliber rifles rattled the windows and set off emergency diagnostic alarms on the ECMO machine. Clara gripped the revolver with both hands, her arms shaking violently, her eyes glued to the frosted glass door of the hospital room.
*Beep. Beep. Beep.*
The heart monitor continued its steady rhythm, completely indifferent to the slaughter unfolding ten feet away. Elena remained in her deep, drug-induced slumber, blissfully unaware that a war was being fought over her soul.
“Stay down, Mom,” Clara whispered, tears tracking through the dust on her cheeks. “I won’t let them touch you. I swear to God, I won’t.”
Out in the hallway, Dante Moretti moved like an avatar of death.
He didn't take cover like a frightened man; he advanced. Holding his heavy .45 in a steady, two-handed grip, Dante stepped through the swirling haze of gunsmoke and drywall dust.
A mercenary rounded the corner, rifle raised. Dante fired twice. The double-tap struck the man squarely in the chest, the kinetic force slamming him against the nurse’s station before he slumped to the floor, lifeless.
Another shooter lunged from an empty patient room, attempting to flank them. Dante pivoted with supernatural speed, grabbed the man’s rifle barrel, forced it upward as it fired harmlessly into the ceiling, and drove his combat blade directly beneath the man’s tactical helmet, severing his jugular in one fluid, brutal stroke.
The mercenary collapsed in a pool of dark arterial blood.
“Clear the stairwell!” Marco shouted, moving in tandem with the remaining Moretti guard, firing controlled bursts down the concrete steps where the remnants of Vincent Vance’s strike team were attempting to retreat.
“Boss! We got the commander!” Marco yelled, hauling a wounded, bleeding man out of the stairwell by his tactical vest.
The man was choking on his own blood, his leg shattered by a ricochet. Dante stepped over the bodies of the fallen, his expensive suit coated in white plaster dust and crimson spatters. He looked down at the mercenary commander with eyes devoid of any human warmth.
Dante planted his heavy boot on the man’s shattered knee.
The mercenary screamed, a high-pitched, agonizing shriek that echoed off the bloodstained tiles.
“Who sent you?” Dante asked softly.
“F-f*** you…” the man spat, blood bubbling from his lips.
Dante applied more pressure. The sickening crunch of bone fragments grinding together filled the quiet corridor. The man’s scream turned into a desperate, sobbing wail.
“VANCE!” the mercenary shrieked. “Vincent Vance! And Marcus Sterling! They’re at the private terminal at LaGuardia! They have a jet waiting! They wanted the girl… they were gonna use her to take your territory!”
Dante held his foot steady for two more seconds, listening to the man weep.
“Thank you for your honesty,” Dante said quietly.
He raised his pistol and pulled the trigger.
The gunshot was absolute. The hallway went dead silent.
Dante holstered his weapon. He pulled a crisp silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, wiped the blood from his cheek, and adjusted his cuffs.
“Marco,” Dante commanded, stepping over the corpse.
“Yes, boss?”
“Lock down this entire hospital with two full platoons from Brooklyn. Post snipers on the roof. Not a single sparrow enters this perimeter without my written consent.”
“And you, sir?” Marco asked.
Dante turned his gaze toward the end of the hall, toward the rainy night waiting outside the shattered windows. A terrible, ancient darkness settled into his eyes.
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“I am going to LaGuardia,” Dante said. “It is time to remind this city what happens to men who threaten my blood.”
***
